Shetland 1973

Fetlar is waiting. At its little quay

    Green seaweed stirs and ripples on the swell.

    The lone sham castle looks across at Yell,

And from the mainland hilltops you can see

Over to westward, glimmering distantly,

    The cliffs of Foula as the clouds dispel.

    Clear air, wide skies, crunch underfoot of shell—

The Viking kingdom waits what is to be.

Loud over Lerwick, seabirds wail and squawk,

    Portent of Shetland’s fast approaching foes—

The briefcased oilmen with their wily talk;

    Soon we shall see, ranged all along the voes

Their hard-faced wives in ranch-type bungalows.