I smell wild garlic and crushed grass. I am glad of that, for a symptom of the disease they say is to lose that hold on life, another treasure gone, like breath. We are safe here, though the river talks all the time, not always reassuringly. After the wind, the water carries away leaf and tree blossom, in a time of stasis we turn to old exports. I name this broken branch the ‘Bountiful Blessing of Scaur’, it is a two-master, a caravel. Here world, our fruit, the stuff that in lockdown we have been making in our fabulous groves, with no machine in sight. Anemones in their crowded docks wave like hankies, birds sing your anthems to pipe our cargoes on their heavy way to sea.
Hugh McMillan is a well published poet from Galloway, in Scotland.