Felix and Fingal

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.