The Bed of Machair
By Marg Greenwood
Screaming gulls, stinking fulmars,
seals fog-battling, slouched on skerries,
crying to their newborn pups
beside the Butt of Lewis.
In the lee of the lighthouse
a calmer place, where I hear
the corncrake's croak from somewhere
in this Highland garden.
A pink path of thrift points the way
until, scare-bombed by a bonxie bully,
I blindly dive into the machair,
soft landing on the speckled carpet.
Orchids join the corncrake's game;
the Early March shrugs,
Heath-Spotted looks away;
all wary of intruding.
Flowers blooming in a bed of machair on Lewis, Outer Hebrides
Birdsfoot trefoil finds my fingers;
I stroke its yellow petals,
linger with pinky lousewort.
Tendrils of dark blue tufted vetch
curl their way into my hair.
My skin drinks the machair essence
until the ego melts and merges,
and there's no longer I, but We.
Image provided by Marg Greenwood