Kirkforthar

The sun trickles though calligraphy
on the pine-tops and the path
becomes a chess board of dark and light,
a swithering of midges
one moment there, the next,
no more, illusion performed.

A train shaves the edge of the tree-line,
shooting towards Dundee, its long
drawn out ebb more of a wind
than a wind that kneels in prayer
in a green and grand cathedral;
only a startled roe deer

breaks the quiet, beating retreat
on dead wood, tree-root and tussock;
or a woodpecker with his rapid tattoo
at the start of work. It finishes
in a portico of light, which bottles
all of the business of beyond.