With a bowline tied to your monkey-fist,
with your heaving-rope coiled sun-wise,
bow to Faray, engine in reverse.
With your stern door lined up to the ramp,
the quarry to starboard, slumped
where the stones for the pier were hacked free.
With outlines of Wideford and Keelylang
papered on the skyline. The tide running high
and the wind southerly.
With trails of foam in your wake,
Geldibust to port. With the stanchions easy,
hung with tyres.
With a route pressed to your palm,
in your pouch, the honed spoon
and that knapped flint from Howar.