I have flushed out animals today: a young deer bolting across wet grass near Kilmaurs and a hawk at Garelochhead arrowing between trees. Maybe it was the train did it, but I think it was me nosing north like the hawk on a wing and a prayer, like the deer on a body swerve. Sunlight is strung through cloud and ahead the weather is bending like a bar round mountains. This is as ever a journey from the central belt of my life to the high hills of my imagination, hard to describe: sometimes I run beside the train, sometimes the dead live, their conversation frozen in the silver air. The country is alive too- the rocks breathe and even the rain is saying something dripping in a romance language down wet windows. Oh a heron! Sheet music beating from here to the sea.
About this poem
Published by the SPL for National Poetry Day (2022)