Inchkeith Hypothesis

‘Some sayis they spak goode hebrew bot as to myself I knaw not bot
be the authoris reherse.’
                                    Robert Lyndsay of Pitscottie, 1493

‘It is more likely they would scream like their dumb nurse, or bleat
like the goats or sheep on the island.’
                                    The History of Scotland, Sir Walter Scott

Forgive me, my love, if I sometimes think of abandoning you here
to the great experiment of language; how unsayable, unsullied, a pure soul,
you might be chosen to give us God’s utterance, here, where aleph and beth
already hum inside rock and turf, sea pinks crushed putty in your original mouth.
The gulls’ guttural screech, of course. And the rise and fall of the tidal breeze
through your lungs. All worldly things must be placed on your blabber-tongue
before a name is given. I get that. Yet how we obsess over you living an Eden
where animals are as yet unnamed and the world is new again
or not at all. The fears stay old and blown. Your still small voice is still small.
I hear you say mmaa mmaa in need. Here is a bunker; here is a pillbox.
As if conception could be paused on the lip, just there, a moment
before meanings thump their way in like distant naval guns.
              So, instead, how about I stay with you,
the three bridges our nightlights, the automated lighthouse a beacon by which to pull yourself
to standing, and I’ll listen. I’ll keep eye contact for as long as it takes.
We can never land on the same island twice. Teach me that nothing is proven.
And isn’t it incredible that we can keep it together, for a time, here,
even when it is not the Lord’s voice that rings forth from under your tongue’s guddle
but the splat of wrack in the emptying pools, and the slubbery bubble
of the tides going out across the lugworms’ casts in their playful salty bath.
Let’s slap our flat palms into this warm broth, tumble on our backs,
and belly-giggle it all out until we’re rescued.

Samuel Tongue