poet. writer. imposter.
Hauled through dreich and spindrift, stomach queered by seekrankheit he gives thanks as he moors to the tuff and - learning how to walk on land again - takes in the columns, packed in salt and ashes like graphite pencils in a rain of chalk dust. To the mouth he gapes, a short hiss escaping and elevating to the sound of liquid strings, reverberating. Gulls flute and piccolo wavelets caress the stave leaving the prints of a melody in his notebook. In the wake of his overture, come the poets, the authors, the artists and royalty to see a kirk perhaps? A narthex of foaming swell, basalt vaulted, hand carved by warring giants.