Leaving Stromness

The gneissic grey of the stone buildings that huddle the harbour like gathered relatives is the grey of Scapa Flow, the grey of the gunmetal battle fleet scuppered below, scuttled as von Reuter got the wrong end of the stick; the grey spread of the meanings strewn between intent and sense received, the grey of the neolithic matter, the unweathered rock of the dwellings of Skara Brae, the enigma of all endings. And today the grey exhaust of the Kirkwall airport bus asserting motion into this mild late summer is the grey between the doubtless black of our imminent mortgaged mainland, tomorrow's admin meetings and the white of the cloud swilling from the cliffs of Hoy like froth off last night's lively IPA the extravagant white of this surprise of mist ghosting up off Hoy Sound now, intoning what, you're leaving now? We're just getting started, stay for one more drink, one more surprise for the road.

Pete Green