In Kirkapol, you dissect lichen in hope
of another clue, tease it from tombstones.
Meanwhile the clouds go wild and the crazy light
of Tiree is dancing on the backs of sheep.
You prise open books for the taking of names
steal the smallest print, prepared to go blind.
You do not notice the sun go out or the fields
turn brown, do not hear the rustling of small birds
in dark grass, disturbed by your ancestors
taking the coins off their eyes.