The harbor never changes

Scour-faced, jet-lagged, fresh from the airport,

they plod up the tower’s steps

and stare across to the Old Man of Storr’s sky-pointing finger.

And here are the bobbing boats in the rippling water

and here are the children far across the kelp

yellow boots, hair stiff in the wind, going for a plodge

and here is the post office where the postmistress heaves her arse

out of the round-cushioned chair for no one

and 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 edge

taking with him just-pregnant Mandy Hurlock

and here is the black bench where Maureen and Tony gave up on their marriage

and here is the deadwater where Rosie Gurley threw her engagement ring

after cutting a new row of hashmarks on her right thigh.

At night they come, the dead and the broken, lined up at the tower

staring across to the Old Man of Storr

cursing 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