On the coast road across the straits the blue flash

of an ambulance appears, then disappears

behind a stand of trees and a barn.

The mainland late morning is so pellucid

one might almost count the dry stones in the walls

that mark the fields, climb past the sparse woods

and delineate the cropped moorlands

from the mountain tops. A cannon thud

starts the regatta of red sailed dinghies.

They scud and tack on the silvery straits,

their spinnakers burgeoning vainly.

The cannon thuds. Sails are furled and stowed.

The ebbing tide exposes wide sandbanks.

Swift clouds are covering the mountain peaks

and the woods are darkening, the road empty.

The brief day is over.