“Like two pebbles being knocked together.” P Sterry
From a dock top, rain
on the still sand, rain
on the sea that’s not, through
every nest of every
fulmar on the rocks–
Flit to tell you
from a thistlehead, wind
kneading the loch, witching
for thirty from an alder’s
sixty degrees, scything
midge ceilidhs–
Flit to tell you
from a whin mast, flower
holes in the heather, kingcups
through the horsetails, eyebright
on the paths–
Flit to tell you
from a marram pin, clouds
slow as junks, bagging
then loosing the light -
cloud washing,
a skyful–
Flit to show you
the moor in sections
rain wind flower cloud
chit chit chit stone chatterer,
though stones themselves
lie close and quiet, like love.
