High Island
By Richard Murphy
A shoulder of rock
Sticks high up out of the sea,
A fisherman’s mark
For lobster and blue-shark.
Fissile and stark
The crust is flaking off,
Seal rock, gull rock,
Cove and cliff.
Dark mounds of mica schist,
A lake, mill, and chapel,
Roofless, one gable smashed,
Lie ringed with rubble.
An older calm,
The kiss of rock and grass,
Pink thrift and white sea-campion,
Flowers in the dead place.
Day keeps lit a flare
Round the north pole all night.
Like brushing long wavy hair
Petrels quiver in flight.
Quietly as the rustle
Of an arm entering a sleeve,
They slip down to nest
Under altar stone or grave.
Round the wrecked laura
Needles flicker
Tacking air, quicker and quicker
To rock, sea, and star.
Copyright © by the owner.
