Rock, Ardnamurchan.

Giant cushions of grey granite rise and fall to the sea. Their soft curves ran out of steam long ago. What was once in is out, there’s no turning back. And everything must be weathered come storms and flood and drought. But the whale rock is going nowhere fast. Peculiar how the surface feels warm to the touch on this cool October morning. I leave my palm on the the raspy skin expectant of an exhalation.

3 Replies to “Rock, Ardnamurchan.”

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