by Sophie McKenzie

But did he make it

Fheidhlimí I mean

After his boat crashed

Splintered on Tory?

What did the waves do to him?

Did he howl

To see how the hungry grey

Engulfed his small loyal hope,

Or was there nothing left 

Nothing to witness

A flat unjust end

A story dashed on crag-cruel cliffs.

Was there an end, a green harbour?

Was there ever a destination

A reason

Maybe nothing more than a wild and

Sudden yearning

For solitude and ocean, brothers

Swallowed before a small

Nowhere

That was the end

Or at least an end

Who can tell

I wanted to tell

To be told

Just seven years old

Old enough to know

The shape of a story

And the first licks

Of that most human love

The legend.