The Glisk
Why do people go to Orkney, to Shetland, to the Faroes
When they don’t have to -
It seems natural to head towards the sun
As if it pulls us like a magnet - that is how we’re made
In Northern latitudes, round here
But others head the other way - to the faint glimmer -
Long winter darkness
The lashing, freezing spray - the wrecks - the storms
The screeching gulls - the lack of light
To live in seal hide, under ribs
Of whales and chewing saltfish,
Huddled up against the killing cold
Wrapped in tales of ancient voyages
Wave after wracking wave in boats of skin
Taking the whale road - further still - to half-remembered islands
At the high ceiling of the world
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