Shores

If we were in Talisker on the shore
where the great white foaming mouth of water
opens between two jaws as hard as flint –
the Headland of Stones and the Red Point –
I’d stand forever by the waves
renewing love out of their crumpling graves
as long as the sea would be going over
the Bay of Talisker for ever;
I would stand thee by the filling tide
till Preshal bowed his stallion head.
And if the two of us were together
on the shores of Calgary in Mull
between Scotland and Tiree,
between this world and eternity,
I’d stand there till time was done
counting the sands grain by grain.
And also on Uist, on Hosta’s shore,
in the face of solitude’s fierce stare,
I’d remain standing, without sleep,
while sea were ebbing, drop by drop.
And if I were on Moidart’s shore
With you, my novelty of desire,
I’d offer this synthesis of love,
grain and water, sand and wave.
And were we by the shelves of Staffin
where the huge joyless sea is coughing
stones and boulders from its throat,
I’d build a fortified wall
Against eternity’s savage howl.