The Rowing Boy
Long, low, black slabs of cloud
Skim in from where winter hides
In it's Northern lair.
Although sitting in this Southern suburb,
I am pulled across time,
And the salted grass that
Dresses Scotland's Western shores,
I am again rowing a small boat
In the arms of wooden piers;
Rowing under like the pier-shooting boy
In long school socks
Through long school-less days.
But, for water on water
This is the likliest of places,
And, the rain folds in
Through gaps in the out-riding hills,
Sending trippers scuttling to Woolworths, Or coffee in cafes.
The clouds continue to skim
Until they skim beyond my imagination.
I try to hold to my journey,
But the rowing boy lies at anchor,
Looking out at the rain streaming
At the edge of the weather.