The Flying Scotsman



Travelling up country to a Glaswegian wake

we fly past a dismembered tree -

Venus de Milo of the hedgerows.


A moving café, trees circling widely,

an ever-changing line of defence.

I’ll catch your last breath.


Inside my mind’s watchful eye the reel

comes to an end and the day blends

into photographs and tapestries.


Fertile old memories fall like gulls

in a downdraft and you are a fragment

of pale blue aura taking your leave.


I feel your worry about the journey -

don’t you know that the grave is almost

a penthouse?


I watched a sunset once, somewhere

between Inverbervie and Montrose.

Fresh air and a cold oceanful of reason


pulled me into a new century, wide-eyed

with old cancer in my blood. We must live

even our death.


The End

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