Letters In Scotland



an old poem about love

I climb the buckled road:

always the smell of dampness

from the moss and in my clothes

the soaking rain.


Scotland’s lost.


The high hills shrug the clouds off

but the mists descend.


Along the road

the ancient deer graze slowly

where the raindrops shatter on bleached stones.


I turn the dead page of her letter

where the ink runs slowly under

water and begin that old procedure:


I will forward every sheet by hand

to hills where clouds burst:


those mysterious postmen

nullifying my deliveries.

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