after Basho, the Japanese poet
Sand – stretched in sun –
the shore. This light
lies sideways over the
yellow grass, over the blue
winter water.
Time lies like light
over the thick stone houses.
I’m frowning slightly inside.
I want a cigarette.
That gentle kick against the chest,
when you inhale.
Like someone touching you
it provides a boundary
that you can feel.
The sunlight is pale
amber liquid flowing in
from the horizon.
We pass a distillery
and a sign to Brechin.
Over in the west
the tops of hills have
a white line of pale pollen
dusted on them.
The bark of the beech trees
is sensuous, twisting and grey.
It’s supposed to be winter.
Blue river water through the
withered yellow grass stems,
light brown bracken.
December – the tail-end of summer.
The kick, the twist,
something between a lick, a kiss,
and a shout for joy.
Purple slates and crimson
bush-stems.
