Fulmars dot the grassy cliffs; 
feathered sentinels,  
gathering intelligence, 
compiling reports. 
Selkies on the rocks below, 
absorbing rays and fornicating; 
a cacophony of song; 
blubber scratched on limpets. 
Great stacks jut from the deep, 
stone pastries, 
immortal elders, 
slowly becoming evanescent. 
Sea caves house the ghosts 
of the lost seamen, 
who succumbed to the squall, 
on that grim day in January.