on the road to the isles



Numbed by this alien terrain,

where truth spells a montony

of rain, we ride entombed


towards our Shangri-La.


Each fresh horizon

taunts the tired eye,

echoes the fretful sense


of hours gone by.


A weariness pervades

this no-man’s land.




Go West young man!

We make our final fling –


turning to be embraced

by fire. The mist resorbed,

light’s pan-theophany


revives a blighted mind.


Rainbows and thunderfall engrave

their echoes on the boundary

of our wonderment, refresh


a dormant sense.

The sky line seethes –

sun sanctified.




White, searing, the unseen sun

burns from the core

of mountains, transforms


a shroud of haze

into a panoply of light.

Rocks swallowed by, still seize


upon this shimmering –

a spectral residue

of more torrential times.

                                                               Malcolm Evison

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