Nothing is accidental here. On the brink
two roofless gables still endure the wind.
The treading sea comes in through granite
and keeps a harbour for this steading.
You goat-leap down the slippery path
to where they once drew up a boat.
The slabs rise round us, old as salt.
Their massive walls bounce back your voice.
Here we crash on mussel shells, look out
to sea through the slapping gate.
You pass me treasures from under our feet—
wet black snailshell, wave of glass.
Above us, thrift heads thatch the stacks,
swayed with bees they overlean the sides.
We see the blue sky splashed in white—
a rising sail of butterflies.