North Uist

This island is an old green blanket
flung on the sea,
the rocks, sharp-kneed,
crag-elbowed, push through the stuff,
untidily heave
the folds like a cloddish sleeper.

The lochs
show sea through the moth-holes
as the fabric lies sodden
trailed on the water,
wet edges sand-yellowed.

To the farm by the road
with forlorn flowerless garden
and wind-stunted bushes
move a man and lame dog.

Now rain drips desperately
from a broken gutter,
on the table are dully set
stewed tea, scones, butter.

The voices now in chant and reading
come in throbbed prayer,
in passionate oriental imagery
the hot hosannas of an ancient world.

Strange transplanting
the warm Levant to the cold Hebrides:
unleavening leaven,
no gladness from the wineskin or the sun,
only a silent man and a lame dog
under a grey heaven,
as a bleak jealous God presides at tea.

1947