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Beneath the Castle

beachcombers heckle fibres

of river, a warp and weft

of green, ochre and a touch of red.

Who would have thought old stones

had so much blood in them?
Rough Wooings and Auld Alliances were here –

Marie de Guise watched on the far shore –

but only the wind woos roughly now.

The tide returns to the Tay’s womb

to be born again another day.

White flowers and refugees aye welcome.
There’s driftwood shaped like a coelacanth.

Where were you hiding these million aeons?

Surviving evolution among grains

glistening from a sandy eternity 

of life among the dead?

White flowers and refugees aye welcome.
Animated Lowry figures 

jog out of a pure horizon.

Children’s laughter scythes sadness –

Praise be the Weather Lord.

The city lies long and littoral.

White flowers and refugees aye welcome.

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