I’ve made my own Museum of / Happiness, which isn’t built of brick / or stone or wood…
We would be snaking up Loch Lomond, the
/ road narrow and winding after the turn at Tarbert,
/ and we’d be bending branches…
Summer climbs the mountains.
/ Flowers overcolour and blanch.
/ Men leave the sun and sit,
/ tree-tented, by the cold creek.
/ Horses bray, each apart
/ in the…