Let’s say you are Suilven now,
a middle of the night hardness,
ignoring guilt to furiously caress your memory,
cutting up into where you’re not needed.
I don’t mean that razor ridge of sandstone
isn’t perfectly spectacular, it is, but then so were you once,
long ago when I didn’t know how time scrapes,
how glaciers shift and ice vanishes.
What’s left now? A man in his early thirties
forcing himself to stand against sunset
as high as he can go, mirror lochans burning below,
This is what happens, island-mountain
you make me alone, legs aching from the climb,
and mad, you make me dream of standing here long enough
to let the landscape whiten and winter cover.
I’ll make myself part of you, kneel and change,
until I, what I is left, am a cairn,
a teetering pile set upon your grey pillar.