(Traigh Iar)

It was summer, and it was years ago;
time when summers were built of blue and gold,
and no beach was too long, no dog too old
to run as far as the arm could throw,
to chase and fetch, to dig, to stop and snuff
unkent, arresting things. We strode the length
of white sand and bird life, buoyed with the strength
of a westerly, as far as – Enough! –

…we turned. The wind at once was a force
needing fought against, twining the loose sand
to a smoke that skeined in a long, low reach.
The dog’s eyes clogged. She stopped. And stood. No course
for it but to lug her, coorying in, and
track our footsteps back across a sunless beach.