by Don Paterson

    When the day comes， as the day surely must，

    when it is asked of you， and you refuse

    to take that lover's wound again， that cup

    of emptiness that is our one completion，

    I'd say go here， maybe， to our unsung

    innermost isle： Kilda's antithesis，

    yet still with its own tiny stubborn anthem，

    its yellow milkwort and its stunted kye.

    Leaving the motherland by a two-car raft，

    the littlest of the fleet， you cross the minch

    to find yourself， if anything， now deeper

    in her arms than ever - sharing her breath，

    watching the red vans sliding silently

    between her hills. In such intimate exile，

    who'd believe the burn behind the house

    the straitened ocean written on the map？

    Here， beside the fordable Atlantic，

    reborn into a secret candidacy，

    the fontanelles reopen one by one

    in the palms， then the breastbone and the brow，

    aching at the shearwater's wail， the rowan

    that falls beyond all seasons. One morning

    you hover on the threshold， knowing for certain

    the first touch of the light will finish you.