Scour-faced, jet-lagged, fresh from the airport,they plod up the tower’s stepsand stare across to the Old Man of Storr’s sky-pointing finger.
And here are the bobbing boats in the rippling waterand here are the children far across the kelpyellow boots, hair stiff in the wind, going for a plodgeand here is the post office where the postmistress heaves her arseout of the round-cushioned chair for no oneand here is the fish and chip shop serving the same cod, the same plaice.
The harbor always changes
Here is the harepin bend where Skinner Bean drove his motorbike off the edgetaking with him just-pregnant Mandy Hurlockand here is the black bench where Maureen and Tony gave up on their marriageand here is the deadwater where Rosie Gurley threw her engagement ringafter cutting a new row of hashmarks on her right thigh.
At night they come, the dead and the broken, lined up at the towerstaring across to the Old Man of Storrcursing the long spiny arms of the bay that hold them and hold them
“The harbor never changes” from the poem “IV Borders” by John Burnside