On the coast road across the straits the blue flash
of an ambulance appears, then disappears
behind a stand of trees and a barn.
The mainland late morning is so pellucid
one might almost count the dry stones in the walls
that mark the fields, climb past the sparse woods
and delineate the cropped moorlands
from the mountain tops. A cannon thud
starts the regatta of red sailed dinghies.
They scud and tack on the silvery straits,
their spinnakers burgeoning vainly.
The cannon thuds. Sails are furled and stowed.
The ebbing tide exposes wide sandbanks.
Swift clouds are covering the mountain peaks
and the woods are darkening, the road empty.
The brief day is over.