Dawn Dreams in a Glasgow Cafe

Glasgow, Scotland
July 15, 2018

Mid-July and zipped into layers, 

I huddle by the high glass walls 

of a Sauchiehall Street coffeehouse 

on a rain-soaked morning in Glasgow.

It is Sunday. Restless seagulls 

patrol the glistened streets. Pigeons 

pick manna from cracks in the sidewalk. 

Strangers roll suitcases down the damp plaza.

But I dream of the highlands – 

forests of birch and pine, 

breath of mist and fir. 

I kneel in the humus of needles and moss

and ponder the ruins of castles and clans 

wrought by the bonnie princes of war. 

A puff of wind ruffles the mirror-face 

of morning over an inland loch. 

I slip out of the chandeliered foyers 

and opulent halls of the once-important.

Sunlight cascades through cathedral trees 

and wavelets kiss the sea-aster shore.

Above villages swollen with summer –

sticky toffee, shops selling tartan –

I climb the bracken hillsides to high heather. 

Wind sweeps in from Iceland. My fingers numb

and somehow it’s August. How soon 

we haste to the land of before where dreams 

devolve to memories, cropped and cleaned, 

and hung in the hall by a wide-open door.

Here is a link to photos and video clips (cropped and cleaned) that accompany this poem. Thanks to Tracy Elder for leading our group through the Highlands and Islands.

Images from Scottish Highlands and Islands

Images from the Scottish highlands and islands. These accompany "Dawn Dreams in a Glasgow Cafe."

Photos:

Clouds over Little Minch and the Outer Hebrides

Cathedral trees

Downy birch

Forest of fir

High heather

Low tide on the Firth of Clyde

Sycamore roots with moss and boulder

The mirror face of Eilean na Moine on Loch Eilt

Videos:

Wavelets kiss the sea-aster shore (Firth of Clyde near the Mount Stuart House)

Loch Shiel at Glenfinnan (near the monument to Bonnie Prince Charlie):

High burn with bracken and heather:

Sound of Sleat in fog with ragwort and wind:

Stumbling Toward a Brampton Manor

Brampton, Cumbria, UK
July 12, 2018

When you exit the two-car train 

outside the village of Brampton 

and leave the lonely platform

tugging wobbly wheeled bags 

loaded with too much stuff 

the mile or two toward an old manor 

which your wife saw on the web 

and Google diverts you down a dwindling lane 

lined with loosestrife and ragwort  

where cattle crowd the mid-day shade 

and watch you weary on 

till the surface turns to gravel 

and your wife and daughter forge ahead  

while you tend bags beside the rusting gates 

of a deserted dairy farm 

composing prayers for traveling mercies 

parsing signs and portents 

as the Brampton black cat 

freezes your soul with yellow-green eyes 

and claims your suitcases 

well

this is when a lanky farmer named James 

ambles up, asks if you’re lost 

or Canadian 

then offers a ride in his sawdust truck 

and you choose to trust 

because this is Cumbria 

and life is good – 

your belly’s full 

and the sun held for one more day. 

Tomorrow, let it rain.