markbousfield

SCOTCH

With pidgin coos
I wrote a candle of words
upon her forearm,
dialling code too
enough for a meal
and mebbes a bottle of vino

We'll get eaten by the tide of the Annan
like the fishes
no longer laying on the sand

My smile is the worm floating on the surf
tumbling into time
with tunnels of witched water
and rafts woven sublime
out of spliced forgotten driftwood
and fettered wild vine.