Scotland by Night

Hudson Greig, Contributor. 

 

Two dormice curled in duvet nests,

Bleary-eyed listeners watching droplets race

Sideways, through streaks of orange light;

Tears on the face of the following moon.

Laundered pyjamas and pale feet

Warmed like toast by dry-eye heaters.

Legs to chest, curled into the arm rest

For fear of falling, afraid of the darkness;

Muddy plastic and discarded McDonalds.

 

We waited expectantly as you sat in front, thinking,

Road hushing on beneath

And wipers missing the part where they meet.

You begin.

Thoughtfully, sonorous and slow,

You wrote out loud,

Left hand at ten, right around a thermos,

Birthing worlds which weighed our eyes,

Only to wake us again with laughter

Or slow our breathing with fear,

Until we found ourselves awoken,

Lifted from seats to shoulders in the cold,

Observing street-lit homes

Through half-shut eyes.

 

How many endings have we left behind?

Forgotten on the damp tarmac

Between Scotland and home

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