" title="Painted, spoken Robin Fulton
Black Harris Tweed
I'm soon to leave, again.
Ramsay Gardens almost
sways, light as a balloon.
I've left now, already.
Air pressure, hawthorn leaves
don't change at the border.
I feel Scotland slip off
like father's best tweed coat
stitched to last a lifetime
but kept for funerals.
Its weight made shoulders feel
purposeful, both feet that
touch more firm on the ground.
Its weight was meant to hold
our warmth in. It didn't.
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