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.