by Liz McKibben
The wind fights our faces, promising rain.
We leave the path. I trip over tufts of turf,
rabbit holes, stones. You can’t steady me.
You’re clutching Dougal tight like he hugged the world
after a dram. ‘Onwards and upwards,’ you shout,
as a gust from the Minch sweeps the sound of your voice
over Edrachilles Bay. Scourie is a sullen shadow.
Handa huddles its birds. We bid our farewells,
scatter the white dust where Dougal moored his boat
in the lee of the bay. Holding hands, we hurry home.
Night falls early here.