by David Ross Linklater
The sun is doing its June thing.
Quite oppressive, really, though
Sean says there’s rain due
and I’ll take that.
I’m doing my 6pm thing
to the bone. Neither of us will
back down. I’m thinking of the jets
you get up the road, low-flying
Tornados tracing the sky with powder,
how Bess would wish she had a gun
to shoot the bastard things down,
wrecking her peace to no end.
The sun’s raging against the paleness
of the world. I open another document
like the morning exposed itself. Bared
me, red hair, bus pass, two blues
and a half-pack of Amber leaf but no skins.
The living room is an oven, believers
and lovers have cooked here. I have
been both. I drink some orange juice
and draw the curtains. Sometimes I
just don’t want to be very much,
see anyone, do a thing.
From left to right
and everything between
plenty twangs, ample
uneasy mornings, enough
to down a hawk, spend
the reserves, intoxicate
what is already drunk
the hedges, the birds, long
empty buses driving into
and the horse isn’t pulling
its back’s goosed, its legs
are shot with trying, the
rider on his heels, time
between each cigarette
shorter, one less train
showing up on schedule
but, there’s the simple
understanding of rock
traffic lights that do not
bend, and the little working bird
sourcing a home from the fall.
It’s a charmed life, really.
David Ross Linklater is a poet from the Highlands of Scotland. He holds a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow and is the recipient of a Dewar Arts Award. His pamphlet, Black Box, was published in February by Speculative Books. He lives and writes in Glasgow. Twitter: @DavidRossLinkla