Foweles in the frith,
Fisses in the flod.
And I mon wax wod:
Mulch sorw I walk with
For beste of bon and blod.
Hello
hello
into the mouthpiece
over and over
is anyone there?
But she would not speak
to him again ever
she tells anyone but him.
That’s it she’s gone.
He visits his childhood: tight,
wiry, a cable
hung in its own weight. One cheek
to the mountains,
fixed on Ben Ledi’s snowtip.
One cheek to the underground weeping,
coal smell of a coal town,
image of a man
pinned beneath beams, his father
wriggling under the mountain.
Choppy water, white horses on the firth,
but no fishing in the flood.