Luing

　　by Don Paterson

　　 When the day comes， as the day surely must，

　　 when it is asked of you， and you refuse

　　 to take that lover's wound again， that cup

　　 of emptiness that is our one completion，

　　 I'd say go here， maybe， to our unsung

　　 innermost isle： Kilda's antithesis，

　　 yet still with its own tiny stubborn anthem，

　　 its yellow milkwort and its stunted kye.

　　 Leaving the motherland by a two-car raft，

　　 the littlest of the fleet， you cross the minch

　　 to find yourself， if anything， now deeper

　　 in her arms than ever - sharing her breath，

　　 watching the red vans sliding silently

　　 between her hills. In such intimate exile，

　　 who'd believe the burn behind the house

　　 the straitened ocean written on the map？

　　 Here， beside the fordable Atlantic，

　　 reborn into a secret candidacy，

　　 the fontanelles reopen one by one

　　 in the palms， then the breastbone and the brow，

　　 aching at the shearwater's wail， the rowan

　　 that falls beyond all seasons. One morning

　　 you hover on the threshold， knowing for certain

　　 the first touch of the light will finish you