Deep soggy grass tinted with violet heather, burgundy stalks of trumpet flowers;
The wind incessant, clouds of all types and shapes and heights,
Sandy beach, rocky beach, shale and slate – cliffs.
The slow pace of everything else, as if resisting the winds drive;
Cattle and sheep, northern apples and blackberries;
Everything grows and moves slowly – like the rocks, ancient, glacier carved,
On which people have tramped long before we built walls – though they too still stand.
The wind blows thoughts, one after another, and then all the way through till none more are left,
It’s sweet like peat, salty like the sea, crisp from the mountains, wet from the rain.
A friendly wave while passing, single lane, a tale or two as answers to a simple query,
A hint, a shake, a friendly notice of the weather, and isn’t it a lovely day?
It’s glorious indeed!
A nice day for a walk, I think it will be rather fine still later.
The city’s grip releases, it can’t hold out against the wind,
A smile comes easy and the rush dispels and you don’t mind letting someone pass,
On the street, or on the road, or on the beach, or in a store,
It doesn’t really matter from where you came, you’re drawn to share a dram or pint,
Perhaps a story from some time long gone - of dreams differed or just now realized.
The doors aren’t locked, at night you wonder freely, it’s a bit too simple to consider the alternative,
Beyond the due considerations of those tied to the land and it’s glories – it’s our field, it’s our bay –
We drink from the same stream, be it as whiskey, beer or tea.