by Sharon Black
There are twenty-three potholes on Iona –
between the village and the north beach
and the farm before the bay
where Columba came aground
and built the island’s abbey.
A tractor rumbles through a gate
from a field of ewes and week-old lambs
and a baler lodged in mud,
turns right into the lane
while a woman in a headscarf lowers the latch.
Twenty-three ways to get stuck.
Twenty-three to try your luck.