Borderlands
(with thanks to Andrew Greig for When they lay bare)
An old drove road, a trickle of stones
where once a cottage stood
beside its rowan tree.
Forts and camps and Roman roads,
a resonance of raids,
reivers and family feuds.
Beneath grey skies as wet as seas
where colours weld to steel,
wide-humped moorlands drown in heather.
Mist closes in as the way rises higher:
a frail old loaning skewing east,
with corbies skirling above the trees.
Up in the clouds there's a burbling laverock,
a cushie doo croons in the sauchs,
a pheasant skreeks within the wood.
Wrapped in shawls these Borderlands
stand close, clean in the snell wind's air
that ever keens across the dykes.
Glimpses of round green hills through murk:
veils of vapour clasp the Border,
weave into it and disappear.
Page(s) 22
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