She smiles at me
from beyond the eastern sea-shore.
Flashing jewelled eyes,
she hoists her skirts so high.
Nouvelle cuisine or an oyster bar —
it’s really up to her.
I’ll write every cheque she brings to me.
She shoots on sight —
it’s her European Legacy.
Round the castle walls —
about the Highlands and the Islands
the faint reminders stand.
Visitors who took a hand
a thousand years ago, or so —
stranded high and dry by tides —
washed up a new identity.
The channel’s wide —
but it’s their European legacy.
I strain my eyes
against the southern light advancing.
On whiter cliffs I’m high.
The sea birds roll and tumble as they fly.
I hear distant mainland music echo
in my island ears.
My feet begin to move instinctively
to the warmer beat of my European
Legacy.