Poem: Brevig

I have recently learned the value of a good editor, so this poem has had one or two minor changes!

Brevig © J C Milne

I

This mild day, the grey sea, calm upon its brow,
lapped the old pier; the islands, unveiled, stepped
from mist and myth, conjured as by ancient cast

and I said, “No, we are further yet, we are
the fabled Tir nan Òg, Land of Youth, we are
west of man’s abode, dream, desire and spell.

Surely this edge, this landscape of the west,
was where I had to be, though beyond
the lochs and wooded glens I vowed

I would not leave. But heaven was not
designed for me; this barren, rocky isle
I chose, not knowing then it fits my soul

to the last insubordination; to the rough
scrape and scree, which, incomprehensible,
dour, is me, should be me, to the core

of feasibility. I was not made for softness
or the crowd; this island lives in fastness,
wears endurance like a battle shroud;

though now I see, behind me on the slope,
that feathered grass has swathed the scar
where hill was scored by flood and slide,

and softer growth accords discretion
to the dank haunt of geese, where river
lulls the bridge, acclaims the sweep of sea.

A white boat lolls, by the wall; of Gull Isle
no sign; the tidal rock, debris of molten rage,
swamped by the sea in flux, skulks below.

You would not know it there, if, stranger,
you lit upon this bay; but islet rock and sea
in counterpoint sustain, remain, prevail.

II

I met upon the pier a woman with her dogs
who had known loss, knew pain and age.
Near, a grey seal dipped, rose; she sang,

her rising call a bond from land to sea,
a plumb-line, twine of sound, symbolic
cord umbilical, mystical fusion, vow.

The seal kept close; could it but sing,
it might have done; could it displace,
as legend tells, its skin, it might have done;

but for the dogs, who watched and heard
the singing spell; who waited jealously,
claiming their own, their god, their known.

The woman sang, a high, endearing call,
melancholy, beckoning, pure as she
knew how; the grey seal dipped and rose.

But all of this was tale, and wonderment,
in their chains only a brief rapprochement,
curiosity, momentary intimation, hint;

and one of them would break, release,
choose closure, hearken to a dissolution,
make their easy, indisputable return.

III

This enchanted year the days unfold,
speaking, if we could but hear, of miracle,
roaming at large upon a chastened world.

The next day trembled between showers and sun,
a fresh wind sauntered, foliage shivered
uncertainly, unfastened to the sea.

And in this rain and sun, a flower bud,
ecstatic in the mesmerising light; I saw,
a strand of hair across my eyes surprised,

I had become a prism in the morning;
through me the world was new, and bright;
a visual hymn, seal’s call; gift of lament.