red fishing boat
snow on the Cuillin
No tea room, but the hum of conversation of men in the back, their jackets luminous, waiting on the ferry. A line of gulls on the harbour wall, and one high above, circling. An engine hums. Diesel drifts across the stillness, a chain turning as the crane lifts and lowers, the trundle of a coach down the hill.
A fishing boat chugs into harbour, rippling.
Across the water, the ferry starts its return, snow still on the peaks, and the distant keening of gulls.
Mallaig, May 2014