What can I tell you?
The Scottish landscape changes
with the rain and sun and mist
Clouds gather
in white and grey melancholy moods
filling the taller than this Kentucky sky
The names of villages
are not easy on the tongue
like the landscape, vowels and consonants
wind through mist and merge
in unfamiliar realms
On the River Clyde, gulls cackle
like crones drunk on too much ale
“A pint is never enough!” one shouts
and cackles again while grey feathers
float to the cobblestone below.
Come, sit with me by the window
We’ll watch the rabbits fat and round,
gather on the old Abbey grounds
and wander into the monk’s graveyard
to quietly nibble the velvet green moss
on Brother Ignatius’ grave
Beyond the graves
The waters of Loch Ness are cold and black
stained from rain-washed peat
rolling off mountains separated an ice age ago
Both Scottish Highlands and Appalachians
exist here in slip fault fashion
and genetic memory swims deep
Rosemarie Wurth-Grice, Bowling Green