Skye Lost

There is a thought that comes to me On Skye As the wind whips through the heather Swaying on the purple hillside Peaks of long knowing Cloaked in the mists of time lost days I try to hold on, to keep what is evident In mind But the drift of the place is old And the uselessness of trying to be Present gives way to a solitude that Isn't of this time and place Something takes hold of me Steals my breath Carries it out to sea Every last piece of myself Broken Collected somewhere Perhaps On some fantastical shore Perhaps Perhaps then If I can find it I can find myself But for this moment I am gone I am nothing I never was And nothing matters Not even me. ~ Laurence Overmire (Previously published in The Ghost of Rabbie Burns, Indelible Mark Publishing,2016)