Windprints

David Ross Linklater

Standing on the shore
White horses lapping
Over the Firth
Sand busy
Concealing what winds
Bring Footsteps and broken lines

Every year the pot hole taxes the
Trailers of grain on that curve
Something should be done
Children examine rock pools
Pockets full of shells
Eyes
To the distant hills blue as water

Men in silver buttoned coats
With nothing left to time
A two-finned Bottlenose of clouds goes
Waves crash like a farmer
Giving it hell with the shotgun
White bony hands falling over each other

Old women gut fish
Back-bent cracked lips
Hair twisted with salt
The moon is a pale buoy
I walk down to the beach
Hands in pockets
A float between my teeth
To take my close brush with the ancients

And when I get home
When the bath water drains
Sand winks up like stars a thousand years gone

David Ross Linklater is a poet from the Highlands living in Glasgow. Since moving he has studied courses in professional writing and journalism and is currently studying a masters in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow. His work has appeared in Glasgow Review of Books, The Grind, Ink, Sweat & Tears and The High Flight, amongst others. You can follow him on Twitter @DavidRossLinkla

Photo credit: Angie Spoto

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