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Cycling


up we climb
fae the winterweary village
into the pale licht caul birthwet
sharp wi the caws o rooks
a faint green fuzz stains
the edge o my vision
snowdrops in an aul wood

we strain for the tap o the brae
furled to the essence o bein
yalla whins waft a thick coconut guff
through blawn clover in wind hymned parks
lost ahin wings o dove-grey cloud
a plane yawns lazily across summer skies

later we spin doon tae the village
through buttery licht lappin saft
ower rigs o corn-dry stubble
leaves burn hectic wi a last fever
an haws drip enamelled beads o blood
from hedgerows crowned wi thorns

from the north come companies o geese
the shivering beat o their signature
scrawled in dark and thrillin notes
against the fadin blue o the lift
in a fold o the bare land the village waits
we are aware o a given warld.

Linda Smith

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