by Hamish Myers
I saw you coming from the West-
The burning ash of Atlantic coasts
Blew through hunted Gauls and Basques
And lit up Cork and Drogheda
With the red man of the myths and legends.
Then sailing North to Borve and Bosta
In the space behind the storm.
You took a farm of green and blue
And played out quiet games of chess
As you were buried in the sand.
Now tonight I read again
Your stories in my headlights.
Round Stoer to Forss and Kirkwall
The Autumn storms you felt the same
Shape questions over Orkney shrines-
Do you believe in ghosts
Or just the tremors of the past?