Caledonia Road
When the storm was cresting
over the Galloway mountains,
at the slope
between the rock face and the sea,
where the stony beaches stood
in ancient silence
and the water surged to meet them, singing
its erosive hymn in the timelessness
of its rotation, the cars piled up
on the single track,
praying for a fast escape,
and we all held our breath.
When the bomb finally came
I dreamed of holding your hand again
under the bus shelter on Caledonia Road,
beneath the ever-present grainy weather,
feeling the gentle push of your chin
against my shoulder blade;
thinking that would have been happiness,
had we known sooner. How tragic
to end it now, before
we can experience it deliberately.
