by Mandy Haggith
This wind is patchy and inconsistent.
It throws punches loaded with rain,
shoves the boat roughly over the water,
rucking up waves in breaking bunches.
Then it pauses,
long enough for us to lose way,
rolling awkwardly in wait
for its next fit of enthusiasm,
its next bit of belligerence.
It has made a mess of the sea
but there’s something childlike,
about the moody scruffiness of its path.
Its holes are made by hills.
The shapes of the Assynt mountains
are stamped all over it.