Na Helmsdale Charuspech

The Helmsdale astrologer opens her arms to the haar,
calling beyond to the soothsayer’s stars.

Her all-seeing eye of rune-twisted time,
her yellow-whin-thought beguiling the mind.

“Are you sure the wind blowèd long and strong
and carried those scriachans on my bansheein’ song?”

she asks as high spin-drift on the ocean waves thrills us,
we lying half-naked looking up at the cirrus.

The Bodachs on the harbour shantying to the ocean,
praying they’ll out-wit Poseidon’s motion.

“You think you’re gods,” Helmsdale’s haruspex hails
as she guts-out the herrings and gnaws on their tails.

“Men are like trawlers with gold-plated decks:
beautiful but useless.” That’s Charuspech.