Light on Skye

A white dog meditates
on the path’s hard gravel.
Her brittle bones are grateful
to the sun’s warmth, her hair
shimmers, alive with light
and below her, alive
as a breaking wave,
geraniums jostle, streaming
over a green bank.
Their blue-purple petals
are arms flung wide,
ecstatic, shouting faces,
every mouth a trumpet
singing out pure joy.

Edmund Prestwich

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Edmund Prestwich would be pleased to hear them.