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. 

3 thoughts on “Ailsa

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