At The Port : Stuart Paterson

Carsethorn 26-03-20

Most days I walk here, not being

pot of gold but more a canvas

needing blanked, repainted soon

with nothing less than what the colours

of a still & priceless moment hold.

The Carse is harvesting a snell breeze

in among the rotting stake net poles,

foostit lea of long washed piers,

tide-whitened trees discarded on

deserted strands, only farmers

on the land & only Criffel

looking down through fingers gripped

round old eyes promising to water soon

for new lamb, whin, dry thistle, us,

everything we need to think of now

as more than the inevitable.

snell – bitterly cold

foostit – mouldy

Criffel – highest hill in east Galloway

whin – gorse