by Jacqui Woodward-Smith

Hard, like women’s salty tears, She waits,
Old as bone, kissed brittle starlight.
Dreaming centuries of tides and sea spray.
Warm as sandstone breathing sunlight.

                 And though She dances in the shadows,
                 Still She sings the Northern Isles. 

Deep as seal eyes quietly watching,
Dives Her moon-light silver waters.
Joy of sea birds, rising, falling,
Wide as blue sky, calling storm clouds. 

                 And though Her voice is but a whisper,
                 Still She sings the Northern Isles.

Dark as death and crow wings reaching,
Endless twilight sings Her mystery.
Soft as silence brushed by swan wings,
      glides beauty on the loch of Harray.

Bright as thrift and dark as peat beds,
Cool as sphagnum, tough as heather.
A dance of sand for the joy of dancing,
      carves spirals on the stones of Westray.

           Her heart beats on though few can hear Her,
                 Still She sings the Northern Isles.
         
                 More ancient than the land that dreams Her,
                 Still She sings the Northern Isles…
                           Still She sings the Northern Isles.

©Jacqui Woodward-Smith (24th May – 3nd July 2007)