This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Beth McDonough Two Poems
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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