the mountain spine of this Scottish isle
grows pink
and those of us who
speak of darkness even as we
confirm the light
are lifted by its present face -
no rain, no mist, the sea calm
around us, the sinking sun
still warming the wisps of breeze.
Clothes dry on the line.
A fire chortles in the grate.
The kitchen music rises to a peak
and calls us to break these meanderings
between the intuitions of magic
and the practicality of warm and cold,
comfort and stir.
We rise as one, to go,
to tie on our aprons,
to cook our meal, together.
