gauzes noon’s garden, stifles the firth,
to sift Tayport through organdie.
Overhead, June sycamores shade
dark in collecting dreich. Here drips
ever closer, but everywhere else
is nothing at all. Smirr – never brave
with downpour’s decision, not even
drizzle’s contained hint
at change. Something we Scots think
fushionless, yet in its slow soak,
weighting air, relentless. I’d tackle dry’s
stoned earth, accept the messenger spit
of new rain, stand face-up to drench, but
this oxygen-trachled wet, so
uncertain, still... immoveable
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