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.
When the call of the hudud,
/ Echoes through the palm fronds
/ Carrying in their mists,
/ Visions, memories:
/ Caravans of high spirited steads,
/ Crisscrossing the endless…