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Scotia Review - Poets

 

Eann Sinclair

 

The Little Angel

Come home to bed
Said the little angel
As she tapped me gently on the back of the neck
I winced and turned
But no-one was there
Come home to bed
And leave these thoughts
On the end of the pier
Where they belong
I’m sure I heard her say
Come home to bed
Don’t stand and watch water
Its bad for your health
I turned again
To nothing but gulls, fish-mart stink
Come home to bed
I’ll keep you warm this winter
No need for fires
When you could have me
(The little temptress)
I came home that night
To a cold bed
In a blue room full of the moon
Certain only that tomorrow
The waters would pull me in.

Somewhere past Haster, its braes long lost to silage
I forgot to remember your name
That is, I spent some time looking back
To those cloud-dappled parks of schochad cries
Then travelled on regardless
Restless by Watten’s wind-torn inland sea
The hissing of water shushed me to silence
For a moment I thought that you waved from the shore
Then, seeing nothing but stone,
I moved on anyway.
On Sordale’s greening swathe I saw a market –
Traders I horses spoke under skies of slate
As I stopped to remember the look of your face.
The sun broke through to bathe the shining river
Two young girls left, laughing.
A single star hangs over Thurso, the waters brimming silver
Beyond those perilous rooftops the "Tjaldur" comes laden
Spilling waves in streamers of darkest blue
A cloud from the ice-plant and I’m thinking of Kirstin
Forgetting nothing.
Remembering you.