By Loch Broom


Loch Broom

We are completely and utterly in love with the evocative place poems of Raphael Kabo.

There is space enough
And time to be here
In this world where
The ceaceless wild game
Of wind and rain is
A science of its own
Triumphant unmaking,

Where the wind heaves against
The eyes and dales
Of these lowing tors
Finding fractures among the moorferns,
Where storm is a synonym
For silence, and air is weather:

Where each windtorn grass
Knows its own old root, each
Cow is motionless swallowing rain,
Where the taut long tendons
Of a North Sea low toss
And throw the shipping sky,
And only deer skitter among
The heather, now copper, now gone.