Much better

High the cliffs, and
blue the sky, and
mad the spray, and
bright the sun, and
deep as the grave
the teeming waters
never at rest
in St Kilda’s cauldron.
Fish for the taking
lazing in innocence
island to island,
flesh for a thunderbolt
not thrown by gods,
not Greek, not a Gael.
If the fish could look up:
a bird left the crag
white against the blue,
half hovered, half-circled,
stopped in an air-path
with eye unblinking,
folded its wings, and
gravity-batteried,
sharp beak down, and
sharp tail up, it
plunged, it
plummeted, it
hit the sea, it
shot right under, and
vanished except
to the fish it speared
in a fearful irruption
from a heaven unseen.
So who is safe?
The gannet cliffs
are shrieking, but
not about that.

Gannet by Edwin Morgan