The New Job

Holy Isle, grey-swathed and indistinct, Deep musing on a half-light winter morn, No random moment this, so surely linked To days he'd lived in dreams of Arran. Rhythmic the breaking waves upon the shore, No other sound to breach the trance-like spell, Now, disbelieving, he need dream no more. The early gannets, circling in the bay, So single-minded, as indeed was he, Their eyes fixed fast upon their silver prey, Unswerving and determined their intent. And now, at last, the goal of which he’d dreamt. With fervent endeavour he would embark, For he was now the Arran District Clerk.