Poetry

Leaving Stromness

The gneissic grey of the stone
                                                            buildings that huddle the
harbour like gathered relatives
                                                        is the grey of Scapa Flow,
the grey of the gunmetal
                                                    battle fleet scuppered below,
scuttled as von Reuter got
                                                                the wrong end of the stick;
the grey spread of the meanings
                                                        strewn between intent
and sense received,
                          the grey of the neolithic
                                                      matter, the unweathered
rock of the dwellings of Skara Brae,
                                                              the enigma of all endings.
And today
                the grey exhaust of the
                                                    Kirkwall airport bus asserting
motion into this mild late summer
                                                is the grey between the doubtless
black of our imminent
                                      mortgaged mainland,
                                                            tomorrow's admin meetings
and the white of the cloud
                                                            swilling from the cliffs of Hoy
like froth off last night's lively IPA
                                                        the extravagant white of this
surprise of mist ghosting up
off Hoy Sound now, intoning
what, you're leaving now? We're
                                                                just getting started, stay
for one more drink, one more
                                                                    surprise
                                                                    for the road.

Pete Green