Greenland

We stagger hove-to before
angry winds heading
every tack.
Angus rocks back and forth
a retching nightmare.

He needs to fetch up in a friendly cove
to the note of a curlew calling
to a touch of green
feel of peat,
skirl of pipes
flight of birds lining wing
over Scottish hills.

A pall of fog lies
over all, tries to hide
a floating ice city

Cathedrals tower blocks,
houses flats and floats
scatter the canals.

No gondola has navigated
a more contrary Venice.

The skipper stands frozen
to the crosstrees pointing.
He conducts an orchestra
for blank walls closing behind
luckless as a prison.

Someone shouts
"Would you like an ice cream?"

We pause for tea.
A happy hour harboured under
a friendly flow's lee, poke
about beside the
biggest ices ever, joke
about those at home
plundering each year for
two weeks at Skelmorlie.

Greenland insinuates itself,
a smudge on the retina
that will not be brushed.

A lone Eskimo stiff
with astonishment proves
rock is not an ophthalmic trick.

We
shunt ice,
backing, rushing and nudging.
A bulldozer for a yacht moves
up to the sleeping settlement

The Eskimo village
does not awake
the text book image of
igloo, kayak and harpoon.

Though dogs hark back
with demented canine operas
desperate for past gods,
concrete mixers mix noise
with transistor radios for
rifle fast Evinrude driving
jean clad boys mad
for Denmark.

From All Points North