March

Wind on the bay,
force six and rising,
beating the narrows
where the island slopes
to cliff-edge margins:
bare rock over water
as deep as sky,
as grey as the gale.

continuance

night follows day

as sure as the cloud
that was once in heaven
descends

Souls in bright homes

Souls

in bright homes

cook tomorrow

from the day’s last scraps.

Wakent bi Moonlicht

I saa the Tay Brig streetch

wi naethin but hills ayont
an the stobs o the brig afore
like rottet wallies in the draig.

Syne the meen