Tombolo

The scent of peat rises

to the rafters, settles in my hair.

Lift a strand from my neck,

fasten it with a Pictish brooch,

golden as the penannular moon.

Stoke the fire with evening,

surround me like a shawl.

Lull to bliss by the tune

of burning dreams;

we sing so quietly at the end.

Mainland and island tie,

become an endless wonderwall,

grow pregnant with India;

the brain-child of all points east,

the touching tongues of our roots.

tk/September 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth, for bringing my words to life.  

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