Hebrides

On tightly-knotted nights I hear them creaking,
Lying like an old boat under water's weight,
Sky holding to where speckled shoals are sneaking,
Darts in spired space between forgotten freight;
Above, the smudgy dark and cross-latticed light,
A one-eyed church's window hurls down harpoons,
Skewers some old sixpence, sends scuttling fright
Rustling back beyond grey graves and sullen moons,
And down and down in spirals, skulking in old lairs,
Something lately waits, biting off leaves like breeze;
Fresh-freed, flying from cold blue lips old prayers
Breathless come bursting from still-thirsty seas.

Thomas Clark