Crail
I have come from the black isle
Life and death, haven,
To your country places that make
A reformation of harbor,
I call out in a dream,
Pierced with innumerable lights
Through the warp of old pane
And glass, by lamp and sun,
Beneath the stepped gables
And the faded red roof line sway
Reflection off the tides,
The first sight of you,
Sweeter than the isle of God
In your waking, anchors,
Would have me believe
In staying, again and last to the sea,
I am going now,
To the rivers and hills that divide us,
The debatable lands,
From the circle of moon
Harp of the north,
Through that old Ettrick,
At the head of the glen,
Those bear gates forever closed,
I am going to open them.
©2016, M. R. Baird