Never having been this far north,
I’m curious to trace tarmac remains
thinning to patches in couch grass.
There is, perhaps, a freshness to the light,
these distances, and those we’ve come
in – what is it? – twenty-five years.
Gathering in hotels, B&Bs,
tomorrow we’ll descend
on their wedding party,
but for now there’s the distillery,
a scent of malted air.
The secondhand car lot extends
to muddy reaches
plunged at by dunlins, knots.
Copyright Tom Phillips 2012