Poetry Map of Scotland: poem no. 404

To Bute...  

A deep hull cuts across silver,
Glints of life below, spurting up
Like salmon.  

I am on the upper deck.
There is wind in
My pockets and I’m holding
It tightly.  

Hills fall shyly into the
Town. Shopfronts gather
The slipping lines and
Print them on postcards.  

The vessel unfolds itself
To the island; cars and bikes and couples,
Children with pockets
Yearning for seashells.  

A gangway sings with footsteps.
I cannot hear you, but
We are smiling
And there is salt in my hair
Already.

Sian McCluskey

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