The Gloup

Once apon a time when the sun shone every day
and the kittywakes and fulmars circled upwards
over the cliffs
and life went on for ever.
The gentle undulations of the blue-green waves
mirrored in the movement of the breeze-stirred pink froth of sea-thrift,
Blaeberries and tiny purple primula scottica sheltering
in between blades of short course grass and clover,
Corn Marigold, Sunspurge, Cranesbill, Bugloss,
Myrtle, Water Avens, Ragwort and Trefoil ,
the herbal perfumes melding into salt spiced wind,
the resonant cries of lapwings and curlews glancing
in and out of the folding air,
Stroma, steadfast in the strong current,
primeval cliffs are inpenetrable battlements
against an eternity of storms and crashing waves.
Stormpetrels rely on respite here. This is not the place where danger lies.
Nature covers it so well -
the deep, dark place
at the heart of the Island.
Only the drifting echo of its gloop- gloop-glooping
fortells the swallowing hunger
of the earth's volatile crust
and the restless forces of the moon on the tides.
Here, over cenuries the ocean has crept under the defences,
threading through the fissures in the submerged rock,
until its liquid tongue has licked away
all that is solid and true.
The soft, unsuspecting, benevolent soil
is consumed by insatiable appetite
of change and chance.
Only space remains, a gaping hole
to gather the rain.
The Gloup is formed.
Unseeing, it seems
I fall easily
into its well of tears.



http://www.fettes.com/Caithness/gloup.htm