Bass Rock

Enormously the rock juts out the ocean

Surrounded by the foam of feral surge

A garland at the famous islands verge

With waves that bleed to death in locomotion.


The stone stands stable, never will surrender

Withstanding surf and storms and even time.

Apart reality it seems to chime

A silent sound mysteriously tender.


In quietude the island seems to slumber

And to consist of silent solitude

Containing nothing but the gannets’ hoot

That dwells on it in an amazing number.


When darkness of the night devours the boulder

And when the day inexorably sinks

From there the lighthouse quietly blinks

I feel inside a deep enticement smolder.

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