Broughty Ferry

27Jul10

at the castle’s edge,
wire mesh barricade preventing falls,
sitting here and staring out
where delusion becomes its ending.
on the opening waters
the jet-skier races against his own wake,
the swimmers circle in their cordons
while the youngest children dare not even paddle
but come running from the waves.
there are markings on the walls, a learned
admission of a history. it is no use,
the pockmarked walls tell infinite stories
and the wind is singing.
i feel awake here for a moment and remember the
miserable old english poet, so adored in my early youth,
who thought, when facing outward to it, that
it raced beyond his reach.
and so it is for most of us for almost all the time
as from inside our cocooning we impatient watch for signs
and rage that we cannot find them or finding cannot
read. in this moment i forget this domestic inheritance
that tends the world as if it were a garden to be tamed
or lavishly designed.
the river Tay opens to the North Sea
and carries something of this thing, this me, away.

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