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Poetry
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| Tiree | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||||||||
| 03 September 2006 | ||||||||||||||||
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Tiree is the beautiful Hebridean island where I holiday every year. Sinatra and Bennet may have left their heart in San Francisco - mine is in Tiree. I think this is a clumsy and poor effort, it was like blood from the proverbial stone. But I feel I must "dig through" the rubbish to get to the good stuff. Be gentle dear readers. Oli. Each time I see you in all your perfection, Sluice gates of joy open up in my heart. Your beauty cannot be recorded in memory, Your colours be captured by mere mortal art. Waters of cobalt, pearlescent sand dunes Whiter and finer than fresh drifted snow Reach to the edge of your emerald meadows Glittered with infinite wildflowers aglow Tiny white houses with walls thick as castles Neat resting towers of green lobster pots Time cannot trouble your endless serenity Your infinite beauty can never be bought Your treasures from Hynish to Coales are strewn Sunset Balephuil with her otters at play Land of two harvests, I wish I was with you Tha gradh agam ort, I count every day Oli
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