Hugh McMillan

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.

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