The back of my hand is no longer so reliable.
Its creases don’t cohere with the mountains.
Up there, the rocks are bleached, the scrub
hurtles down a slope as if it’s thirsty
for the sea. Decisions might have to be made.
In the wood that shades the promontory,
you can almost be lost before you recognise
an arrangement of branches, a blister on a trunk
that points you outwards, to the islands,
to slotted headlands stretching outbeyond where we are and into the open distance.
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips