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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