Orkney

Sea and sand have here
A shifting sovereignty.
Lifetimes could pass
Before you learn their lineaments
— Tell sound from inlet
Islet from promontory.
Red–footed oyster–catchers,
Black–headed gulls
Cry territories everywhere,
And build indifferently on field or shore.
Men cannot say for certain
If they fish or farm.
Sheep thrive on sea–wrack or on grass.

Salt–laden winds
Viking the cowering trees
But dust from sea–milled shells
Blows inland for the flowers.
So cliffs are sweet as heaven
With clover and with thyme
Low meadows sunk in buttercups,
And every inlet decked as for a Fair
With yellow flags.

This land of mildly flowing hills
A little greener than the flowing sea
Would be, you'd think
A place for dreamers, with grey eyes
Wistful for the Past, and tongues
Melodiously telling over tails
Already told too often.

Not so.
Men here are dark and ruddy,
Speak free and hearty as the wind,
Will brook as little nonsense as the sea,
Laugh loud and often,
Give brisk welcome to a stranger,
Dance vigorously, and sing
Like seamen on perpetual leave.