Miranda

Aw Miranda, hen. Yer obsessed. 
Aywis in a breenge after that muckle eejit, 
vowing he’s yer world. 
Yer heid over heels over heid-besotted 
but he keips others on the fly; 
Ariel, Umbriel, Titania, Oberon. 
       Faerie-names. 
       None as bonnie as you 
fiddling the dibbed nib 
of Shakespeare’s quill. 

All those hidey-holes and secrets,  
twinkling and glittering  
like aurora’s lanterns 
beneath chitterin’ rock.  
Colossal highs are Nevis-squared. 
Chasm lows could tickle Nessie’s belly. 
Are ye a volcano, sned fae its body?  
Shaggy-coated on yer luminous cliffs –  
glinting crouns 
for telescopic keekers tae ogle. 

And him. Glaikit Chieftain o’ the planaid-race! 
Hurlin’ roon ye, caw his back.  
Kin ye no see that he’s no the Big Bang 
he maks himself oot tae be? 
Ah ken yer chaotic past. Scars doon yer coupon 
licht by glowan stars. 
Dinnae swither, sweetheart. Coorie in.  
Ah ken yer close to him 
but yer ring disnae skinkle    
the way Saturn’s does.  

Yer only wee, but yer fierce. Complex. Exotic. 
Sometimes, it’s been chaotic  
but nae mair:  Split.  
Leave him tae his ither moons  
and greetin’ Titan weans. Fragment 
intae toaty speckles of stardust. 
Ye’ve nae magnetic field keiping ye here.  
Tidally-locked, he has nae choice  
but to watch yer face  
blaw a kiss back – like an asteroid  
tae his weeping cheeks.