poetry is the mist, draped softly on the Tables
poetry is the water, dancing in Glen Hinnisdal, and the laughter of the children in remembered swimming there
poetry is the arc of the bridge and the knowledge of returning
poetry is the echoed words of Sorley, crashing on the black sand shore
poetry is the hard dark rock of the Cuillin, the sharp serrated edge of her skyline
poetry is the invocation of the bog myrtle, crushed against your finger tips
poetry is bog cotton, laughing in the breeze
poetry is the wind on the moorland, the kiss of spirit freedom
poetry is the light, glinting on the water as the road turns down to Gesto and a thousand silent worships and a thousand tears of home
poetry is the island, lost in mist, and illumined with the perfect clarity of a winter sunshine day
poetry is truth
poetry is mystery
poetry is love and impossible gratitude
poetry is the island,
and I am forever returning.