In the Western Isles they farewell
the day last, short of warmth,
and the arable,
and even of surnames,
a smattering of island clans.

The sea hisses all night quenching
the sun, as the seabirds nestle
among rocks and grass, until the young
can fall like snow down the cliff
to settle into their own life.

Beehive dwellings of stone
have waited for the men,
who will build beehives of salted,
oily birds for sale, and read their
Gaelic bible and trust in ropes below,
lest they fall with the snow.

Julian O’Dea

2 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by fuzziewuzziebear on October 31, 2019 at 7:15 am

    I don’t have too much to say about seabirds. They stay out of my way and I stay out of theirs. That is a good thing. We both like fish.


  2. Posted by fuzziewuzziebear on November 4, 2019 at 6:38 am

    Brunette! This one is from Sweden.


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