Return from Mull

I’m back from the place,from the sound of colour.
Ginger and cream at Glengorm and Island
roughed up by winter,
but whistling green at the Mishnish Lochsin
a tune of cold stone blue.

Tails of black and basalt curl tidewards as we speed,
chasing the smooth-salt Ross,
cut here and there with chips of wind,
their protests in lacy frills of foam above an honest pascal light.

And the place, land, sea, soil and airfused into a scene so still
the minotaur of mountain landside sleeps,
astounded by its own beauty
and us, the only thing in flight.

By evening, back at Oban,tired hips of mountains cut off by Lorn
lies down on a citrus April night.

And now we are back to blood and bone and smoke,
cobbles laid in crooked rows that brings my rhythm up short.
Can you wait a second, while I adjust my settings?
To full screen mode, default mode, Glasgow mode
and commit these things to mind.