The title piece of Kenneth Steven’s Collected Poems (Saint Andrew Press, 2009) catches the wonder and delight that the Dunkeld-based poet felt as a youth for the seascapes and islands of Scotland’s western littoral.

Island                 

I remember what it was like to barefoot that house,

Wood rooms bleached by light. Days were new voyages, journeys,

Coming home a pouring out of stories and of starfish.

The sun never died completely in the night,

The skies just turned luminous, the wind

Tugged at the strings in the grass like a hand

In a harp. I did not sleep, too glad to listen by a window

To the sorrow sounds of the birds

As they swept down in skeins, and rose again, celebrating

All that summer. I did not sleep, the weight of school

Behind and before too great to waste a grain of this.

One four in the morning at first larksong I went west over the dunes,

Broke down running onto three miles of white shell sand, and stood.

A wave curled and silked the shore in a single seamless breath.

I went naked into the water, ran deep into a green

Through which I was translucent. I rejoiced

In something I could not name; I celebrated a wonder

Too huge to hold. I trailed home, slow and golden,

Dried by the sunlight.