Borges in Scotland

In the dismal garden at Pilmour

I watched old Borges, blind man leaning

on his stick among the iron trunks of beech,

a wind-dark canopy of claws above him.

Gusts of salt wind swayed the trees,

rippling the feathers of the bracken floor.

β€œIt’s rooks,” he said, ears opening like palms.

The empty headlights of his eyes turned up.

So Borges listened and was birds.

A soot-cloud rose, world-blackening,

the hard-by thunder of a thousand birds

who called his name now: Borges, Borges.