This poem is taken from Stand 218, 16(2) May - June 2018.

Sharon Black Poem

A red deer ribbons through forest,
through a ragged pine-line

halfway to the sky. Sunlight pours
into green and copper bowls

and bright capillaries of snow.
Layers of beech rise up the bank:

all the years I’ve travelled here,
the skins I’ve shed.

A woman sitting opposite
predicts the lochs we’ll pass:

Gare, Long, Lomond, Awe, Etive.   
Then it’s tipped aggregate

at Crianlarich, where for once
the train does not divide in two;

Lu’s head on my shoulder, its soft
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