Clouds lie low down on the Sound

Today, cold blue silk, under a sea-fret,

The Mull of Galloway to the Mull of Kintyre,

Including the Firth of Clyde and the North Channel,

All tufted with white horses:

North-easterly, five at first, backing to three later

And the bent white wing of a wheeling gannet

Is stark against the dark hills of Kintyre.

 

This is the wind-road, this is the wave-road, this

Is the whale-road, the breeze singing in rigging

Filling sails, lures men to sea, promising:

With such a wind behind him, a man

Might land at Campbeltown, or even Rathlin,

Or traverse half the world and

Tie up at the brash quays of New York.

 

I, however, am becalmed, and keeping watch

On a sea now wide and empty, changing again,

Hung with static gannets riding gusts, and the rain

Coming down again like a curtain, braced for another blast,

Three miles away, and closing fast.