Mull of Nowhere

The Mull of Nowhere

I’ll pour a black coffee

Seated with cramps
I trace the engram of an Easter holiday
discernable by it’s amber inclusions, carbolic Malts
peat bogs and Harris tweed sheds…

the bloating will start after an hour

Above the B&B
cauliflower clouds clamp
round a razor of sunlight
cutting through the butter of my reverie

followed by a quaint lingering nausea

I’m neither here nor there, glad
to be stuck in the machair
where fulmar, chough, eagles do or dare
and treadmills go nowhere

I start by sniffing the bag of roast ground coffee

from a vantage rock
cypress black cormorants
glide like magnets over iron flat water.

but relinquish and prepare the stovetop pot

Adrift on the swelling moor
I recollect my hipflask for
dorsal ventral central heating…

and sup the distillate

I cannot vouch for my eyes but
beyond their limitations

it is the same with red wine and dairy products

I smell the salt
from the vacant sea

the doctor says don’t do it

brought closer by the buying
and selling transactions of an Atlantic breeze.

hospital tests indicate stones

Automated lighthouse, a Velasquez grey
strangled by an ivy of mist

trapped in the warm dark coves and islets

stands on a black volcanic ledge
in the middle of nowhere

of the Mull of Nowhere