The granite face
still stands
but every year
does crumble,
attacked by gales
and salt-haired billows,
nursed and cradled
by the cold black deep.
At the precipice stands,
no wait, now kneels,
a son of clan MacLeod.
Behind the cliff
the sheep run down
to shelters,
smelling heavy water
on the rivers of the air.
The wind knocks
MacLeod back
into the grass below,
he recoils in Gaelic
with a shout
and takes the hill
again.
Clinging to
an outcrop,
the wind begins
to whisper rain,
until the torrents
overtake
the herald
with resounding force.
The boy's eyes
battle the sky
and at last
they are rewarded.
Slamming
with defiance through
a wave,
up comes a sail.
The ship.
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