The sun makes sense of Mull,
Bringing release from hunched grey reflections.
Now the hills across the sound shrug off their shrouds,
And their music tumbles white down ancient channels.
Even the bladder wrack glistens on Craignure shore,
While the cliffs behind show forth birdsong.
The sea rolls out a welcome for the eager Oban ferry,
And local buses muster to bear the pilgrims on.
Claire Bryden (sic). Waiting for the Fionnphort Bus. Poetry Scotland, New Series No 64, Late Spring 2010.