Your fertile place hides from the worst of winds,
‘Neath heath’ry bluff, o’erlooking moody brine
And jagged upthrust Rona, Raasay, Skye;
And when it’s clear there’s Lewis, Hebride,
Whose pastel fingered line encrowns the sea
Which points the way to some less fair country.

Transmuting skies wash this unchanging scene’s
Short winter days, cold-cracking underfoot,
Its endless summer-time when new life bursts,
Extravagant, from land the sun now warms;
And fire-glow evenings of autumnal storms
And Spring’s clear nights that lead to starry dawns.

This croft is home to many more than we:
Shy, soft-furred life runs in and all around,
Quick, quiet insects flit its gardens neat,
Bright feathered hunters cruise the tussock slope
To rock-bound shore where silken otters lope,
And in deep pools for luscious shell-fish grope.

Yes, your red roof has sheltered many lives
And in a little time smoothed out creased brows -
And for that time holds less kind worlds at bay.
Here can be felt there’s nothing out of joint,
Just nature’s balm, peacefully to annoint
The minds of we who know of seven Red Point.
- Bryan Islip / September 95