Under whose name I dine this evening,
a world away from the world, in July,
in far-flung Cromarty, where blink and
you’ll miss night as if stung in the eye
by a snowflake, one lost winter’s day.
The skies across the firth tower smokily.
North dreams beyond in pillows of fresh linen.
It’s late but not too late to dream of you
curled up in night, head on pillow,
dreaming whatever you dream now.
I’m dining with a local fisher who tells me,
of all people, what I know already:
that the oystercatcher doesn’t simply pipe
but sings too… Of what? Immortality,
time and tide, and sorrow.