You will not be a sepia hound in my dream at Trotternish, even
One more time. Not a lighthouse keeper
Landlocked in at Insch, not the deep sea diver with the metal
Brain in the icy umbraged waters of the Outer Hebrides.
Not at the Firth of Lorne, where each man downed is a tricycle
Turned over, most of his spokes blown off, not even, were
You luckier, in the heap of small black mussels
Washed up on the Isle of Skye, huddling but still whole.
You will come back as a starfish, two arms lopped off,
Scooped up by the mop-topped schoolboy, Fearghas,
Who will take you home to Dingwall when the blotted tide is low,
Collect you with his blush balloons, his tin Sienna soldiers,
Coloring your endoskeleton with a spot of Maize and Timberwolf
From his set of crayons, flattering you with a Thistle touch, then some
Dandelion flourishes until his suppertime, one last last dab of Fern—
After which he will go on to his maroon arithmetic and Dostoyevsky
And his other sullen Prussian Blue and Orchid arts.