Sightseeing

Though you think I don’t want to see this place,

to walk the narrow paths to Bonnyrigg,

to not just hear the River Esk as it twigs

by moss and ferns, I do, though not to chase

down emails at the pub, where you embrace

the new, the grizzled altitudes, those big

ideas you need to research and rejig

to prove you’re right. Instead, I climb the staircase,

for home more often calls to me, and true,

I’m here, not there, but tucked up all the same

in corners, window seats, and railroad rooms.

They’re candle-lit, with a wall of pines burnt blue

by sunset as my view, and a tub I’ve claimed.

It’s deep, with steam as thick as any womb.

Self-Portrait as Beach Ball

I bounce along the surface,

bob like a question

with an abundance of answers,

all of them right, all

of them inspire yes, I will.

Who needs hands, feet, eyes

when I can roll

and let the breeze carry me, meet

a sweet strawberry sun

at the horizon at dawn?

When I float, I don’t hear

the cries of cave dwellers

beating their chests for war,

or think about why

I’ve never tasted a rutabaga.

I am air, striped in the wonder

of liquid meadows, laden

with anemones, red algae, purple coral,

the forget-me-nots of the sea,

living their quiet, vibrant life

below me, while dolphins

jump in circles above me,

and I am buoyed, adrift,

at the glorious mercy

of wind and wave.