The Mist
rolls in, hangs over the heather,
and on these evenings
our landscape feels like an aftermath,
no victors of the battle,
everything waiting for the corbies,
to pick the eyes;
it is meaningless, it is beautiful –
and we must hold these
two thoughts, together somehow.
Perhaps, like the land and water,
they can only seem to fit,
but the mist says otherwise.
Seth Crook taught philosophy at various universities and then moved to the Hebrides. He doesn’t like cod philosophy in poetry, but likes cod, poetry and philosophy.