A trip to The Worm comes fraught with peril,
be you in Scarpa, Nike or Merrell.
The problem you see comes not from the sky
but the live-giving blood of fish, and fry.
To cross the rocks, they must be clear,
Swim you must not; or Die, I fear.
Coastguards watch close, advice for all
“Come back in good time, or chopper we’ll call”
Rough seas, horses of white
Algae on rocks, black as night
Jellies hidden, somewhere near,
To the South maybe, view unclear.
Peregrine male, whistling past,
just a quick glimpse, going so fast.
Guillimott are here already, thinking of nests
Little ledges and tight corners, for them they're best.
Scavengers are searching for meal of chick,
mobbed by crows plunging like a brick.
Wings flap, waves crash,
eroding the rock, naturally - Smash.
Gulls call, guns fire,
sounds contrasting, may conspire
at the tip of the Worm, mark this wild place
where sun and rain, in turn, sculpt the face.
The Worm it lives, of that I’m sure
– I’ve seen the breath, heard the snore.
So take a trip to The Worm, with my blessing go
For memorable it will be, in sun or snow.
Some things are natural, we must accept
For memories of this place ‘ere be kept.
© Martin Lilley 2010
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