Ham Voe Haiku
an extract
Hamnafield and me
this morning: my pluming breath,
its scribbles of scree.
Among chains and rope,
lashed here all winter: Swallow,
Lively, Brighter Hope.
Mandolin, guitar:
after Hurricane Highlights
a slow island air.
No more shag. A joke.
A minute’s silence while my
pipe goes up in smoke.
A burst bale at Ham
makes a spread for two ponies,
a bed for one lamb.
Boat-wreck in the nousts,
millstones in moss by the burn.
Windmill blades turn, turn.
How pleasant the walk
to Da Kame from Hamnafield,
in and out of fog.
Let’s sort out these names:
Da Sneug, Da Noup, Hamnafield,
Soberlie, Da Kame.
When he’s quite certain
I’ve been here a week, he moves
in my direction.
Bryan, hour by hour,
stoops to the weld: a tiny
flickering flower.
