Hope on the cliffs of Scotland? Well, that has to be hopeful! This brief poem goes back a bit — to when I holidayed in Scotland and found the Atlantic in those climes what the poem finds it. (Now, in Thailand, Scotland seems even colder.)

Hope is a heightened hammer, a sea

of whorls and culled salt

that nettle the eye. No lee

or beauty presses back to brake

the cold pole-turning of tides or blind stones'

shunting of animate plovers haunting pools, and foam

breaking gannets under a white edge.


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