Cross the only bridge over the Atlantic
And call for the ferry
To take you to Easdale
The dark isle
Black shingle beach
Jagged rock and bladderwrack
Sheer sided, limpet pock-marked
Slate screes down to glass-top pools
Workings filled by the storm
That put an end to working
Bringing exodus and decline
And turning places of dirt and dust
Death even
Into turquoise pools
Of wonderment.
Turning Easdale into a gem
A black obsidian beauty
Otherworldly and familiar
Quintessence of all childhood
The gurgle of the ebbing outflow
From pool to sea
The most beautiful sound
The world has to offer
In this moment