Litteral Drift (On Eigg)
Far from their source
imperial waves
break later, rip slow.
The sands sing as your feet leave.
Ancient flocks graze
empty croft gardens –
war graves flower.
The squeak as your toes curl free.
A Celtic cross of eerie
eroded scales ties knots
in almost lost reverence
its echo, digitally rendered,
will pull time back
in cities choked on now.
Your comfort: unprecedented
mocked by glinting eyes among the kelp.
*
In low light we seize the quiet
with lazered lenses, the explosive
cease of a cosmic neighbours life –
stars named the first time
long after their passing
into echoes of light
exceed the speed of endings.
*
Some awe, or similar,
at that voice preceding you
speaking present as hunger or waves
rolling into your ear
That presence, sifting you back
and forth along the shore,
speaking precious secrets
out of silt.
Benjamin Dorey 