There is no other life
EDWIN MORGAN
If she dies, I simply drown,
but I want to hitch with her a bit;
to point her at the Foula Light,
perched like a mahout on her igneous brow.
THERE IS NO OTHER LIFE.
It is in heaven as it is on earth –
the sodium lamps of Hamnavoe,
the whooping swans’ earache echo,
the mild, muddled behemoth, treading water.
And if I drown, I’ll go down with her –
lolled in her haybreath, catching her ticks,
dredged by her rubbery cowlicks
of rain, paddling for Canada
in the grim, grey dawn.