Hirta

I know every inch of this island

and can’t stand the sight of it.

I flinch at the hills and the

tips of the trees as they rise

from the valleys I visit each day.

I stare at the storms at sea

encircling me

from the edge of the bay.

The last of the settlers sailed away

in clearer waters and days of yore,

before the storms made leaving shore

impossible.

 

I could disrobe and walk into the sea to

drown in my inadequacies,

or starve until I eat myself in hope of

nothing more.

© Sam Hunt, 2017

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