I walk the black lava shores of Glendale
To find you a small stone.
The mist rolls down off the table lands
And mingles soft with the salt breath on my lips.
I slip on the oily wrack and remind myself that
I have exiled myself here
Far away from you.
But your words still sing to me
Like the cuckoo
Distant but there.
Driving south later I drift with the Eels
Through Bracadales ghost filled rain,
The gorse lights my way south.
And then on Taliskers shore
Where peat and oil and seaweed
Drift through the mist onto my tongue.
I drink in the angels share,
The distance between us vanishes
For a sweet instant
As you sing to me of Bowmore.