Isle of Arran

The wind moves clouds like a glass blower, rain the fingers of ghosts seeking the residue from whiskey colored dreams. Rain lands on a beach, grains of sands memories from past lives, tide washes into a shell, spirits long to tell the people about their tales of arran, an empty bottle in the waters the echoing vowel of the sound of arran, the sea is time's fire camouflaged. Can an island exhale as the night rows away collecting lost tears of those long gone in a bottle, tears on a candle wait for a flame. An island's pen is synchronized with ships sailing into the night Visitors to this island gleam stories that the wind carry's to king's cave from which the moon takes a drink. Red deer sleep -antlers are clock hands, golden eagle reaps following an ancient unchanging protocol, in two straight dives keeping it's inner clock alive, wings briefly a bridge between clouds. First whispers of light arrive, keys to unlock a diary-the gorse flowers private narrative. The wind and stories are strong enough to carry the Arran stone through dreams, clouds, across the wings of birds as grey seals preview stars through the sea's glass eye.