The puffin holds not virgins in high regard.
It likes the pounding soft spray, the
Salt of all night sweats; the
Dawn that fingers the sky,
Beckoning ships to
Wreck upon beaches and
Deliver sweet slime.

Tiny druid in a cold place, he
Rests on heather carpets
Where sleep brings
Twined dreams of mermaids,
Men with beards, and
Caves that sing
Of Mendelssohn.

But rarely do mermaids or beards
(Or mermaids with beards)
Wash up on these lonesome shores. So the
Puffin throws back his head,
Flings lonesome grunts into silent seas,
Eyes, hungry whirlpools longing for miracles
Atop the barren clifftops of Treshnish.