As we walked out to Ailsa,
That golden afternoon
The isle arising cirrus,
Spun candyfloss and brume
“To The Lighthouse” drew us through,
Butter-innocence scent gorse
watchful pine above the green.
Saw coursing hare’s discourse
Stepping light to limpid shore,
Your haloed hair Aurora
Sea cleansed limpets flensed to crowns,
Cockle shelled corona
Through tufted dunes sand-sliding,
Up secret smugglers path
We turned toward sun setting,
Tea laid at Ailsa’s hearth
This could have been called To The Lighthouse or Easster Rising. It attempts to describe the magic of an Easter afternoon shared, carved out of time, with my daughter.
She will have it in her memory forever too.
Thanks. Did you get that far south in your west coast travels ?
Sailed passed Ailsa many years ago. Spent many happy times in the Outer Hebrides, walking on Barra, Uist and Eriskay