Skye

The Isle of Skye feels like the end of the world
Where the horizon meets the moon
In a cloudy world of togetherness-
Like Inverness and just as green.

And if I may not pass this way again,
At least I have a frame from which to draw
The purest breath of air so clean
I can hardly inhale its precision.

Like the early morning fog that lifts
Only when the smell of fresh grass has moved on,
I am momentarily, extraordinarily
Sitting atop the Quiraing and watching
Flossies fall
Off
The
Edge.