Muckle Flugga
Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp
Policed by the unsettling glare
of nesting great skuas
we tread the narrow path
The boardwalk rises and falls
under a sky empty
and scoured of song
To the lighthouse
in search of the solan goose
we press on
Until all land ends
pearl-studded cliffs rear up
to arrest us
And the pitch of the sea
snares the unquiet silence
of our voices
Col Fleetwood lives and writes in the wild and beautiful borderlands between Scotland and England.