Chain-Walk, Kincraig for Iain Who knows what we can do? When friends believe In us, the chrysalis grows tight and splits And, struggling out, we fly. Your basalt cliffs Rose up that day like panic. I swallowed hard, So scared, my two-day migraine slid away. Yet when I grasped the chains, they were all muscle, A warmth of linked hands. Then into an hour’s Hauling, up and over-ing, inching downwards, Toes socketing home, holdfasts to hand. An afterwards, next year, that you’ll remember – Kestrel leaning upon warm cliff-top air, Nonchalant grasses, and the glittering Forth.
Anna Crowe is a poet, translator and creative writing tutor living in St Andrews.Read more about this poet