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Crannog 1 winter 2002
after Landscape with Philomen and Baucis, Rubens
Hermes's hand is on my shoulder,
We have been plucked from the jaws of death.
Below us houses herds towns are washed away,
Men women and children are drowning,
Some cling to life but their struggles are hopeless,
A bull is gored by a fallen tree.
When we die it will be at the same time
We will metamorphose into trees
I an Oak you a Linden arms entwined.
Light stretches beyond our evening meal
across fields aglow with celandine
slip silently from cragged rocks
to creep amid the heather.
Over Knock's rugged hill
skulls of sheep
and ancient rows of stones
align the path to the precipice
where the Atlantic 's mammoth fingers
hook your breath
and grind upon the shore.
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