Lewis in Summer

A poem by Derick Thomson (translated from the Gaelic by the author)

The atmosphere clear and transaprent

as though a veil had been rent

and the Creator were sitting in full view of His people

eating potatoes and herring,

with no man to whom He can say grace.

Probably there’s no sky in the world

that makes it so easy for people

to look in on eternity;

you don’t need philosophy

where you can make do with binoculars.

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