It used to be Mrs Humphrey's <br />hospital for Norway's whalers, anchored in Hamnavoe, <br />stricken with scurvy, back in the day. It's the Henderson's house, now. <br />The sea's soughing and the skiffs are skimming the Flow <br />with single fishermen; the ferry's wake <br />makes its perfect Vs visible from the workshop window. <br />Back-ground radio 3 voices drone on through Elaine's <br />days at the wheel, her hands in clay that grows as it spins... <br /> <br />Mike's lens traps northern Scottish <br />islands' changing light with photographs of long-horned <br />cattle on Hoy: gold, big - in the narrow track, <br />impassable, under the sullen mountain; mist rising and opening <br /> <br />purple crocuses in spring; a ruined bothy, standing in fog, still <br />loved by the camera at dusk. And then, when blustery weather <br />hurls on the land its might in the thin winds laced with brine, <br />screaming like fiends, whipping up spumes <br />of green froths, hooting through gaps under doors, <br />my sister's kiln is baking peedie mugs, with sea birds <br />beautifully sketched on pristine porcelain under a clear glaze. <br /> <br />They'll pack their fine pictures and these pots and bowls and tiles <br />for you in carefully-boxed tubes and cubes <br />and rush them to your own address... <br />where denser airs and neon lights make skies blush at sunset.<br /><br />Jacqui Thewless<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scapa-studios/
