A VISIT FROM THE MUSE

After days of traveling, I’d hoped
to take a rest tonight in the hotel lounge.
Staring at a gentle, rolling fire.
Sitting in an overstuffed chair
sipping a dram of single malt whisky,
I’d settled in to a mood of quiet revelry
retelling in my head, tales of my journey so far.

Gently interrupted, though, by the call
of a water siren through the sea-facing window
where just hours earlier, the island’s mayor
had leaped inside demanding a rub
of his fulsome, furry tabby belly.

The keening grew insistent, demanding
attention despite my resolve to savor
an evening of gentle repose. And so,
I grabbed my coat and cane and strode
out into the dark for a pitch black walk
along the esplanade, praying not to step
on brave toads making their own pilgrimage.

The scent of the sea hung thickly
in the cool night air; a distant house light
across the sound on Mull, the only sign
of life on that spare island. But still,
the sound of the siren beckoned me on.

Happening on a break in the seawall,
I stopped to listen closely. But now the only
sound I heard was the steady wash
of waves rolling over seaweed and shells
left by the receding tide. Standing for minutes
that felt like hours, I was seduced
by nature and her wiles.

Returning to my tiny room, I shut my window
and brusquely closed the drapes. Eagerly,
I changed and just as quickly fell asleep.
The white noise of the waves, the soundtrack
of my dreams; the whisky, my potion; the siren, my muse.