of the World
Before you step into the mist and spray
be sure that water is plentiful nearby:
you could look across the great, grey Bay
from Manila's Pan Pacific; the walk-in
was bigger than back rooms I've lived in -
hot rain pummelled my awkward bones,
volcanic flush direct from Pinatubo.
At The Warder's Inn in Lewes, a worn rose
sent down a rope of warm water, catching
on my nape, a gift from the hanging judges
at the local assizes, who once hoisted cads
into their nooses while the Ouse
rounded a slack corner.
Up in Stockholm,
the Berns had one neat hole in the ceiling,
another in the cambered floor
and a swing out panel, enough of a door
as you'd need; boats frothed snug quays
a stroll away; the cathedral bell slammed.
At The St Andrews Bay, I crank
the overdrive and, miles away, unseen,
mallards will bob distractedly
as the reservoir surrenders a half inch
to leave me this pink, this clean.
This poem is from a
forthcoming pamphlet The Bubble Bride, due
from the Scottish press Akros some time in May.
If you've any comments on
his poem, Roddy Lumsden would be pleased to hear from you.