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.
Will Vigar 
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