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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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