Plantation blues
Morning light is warm quicksilver
on the desert plateau
of the high Monadhliath,
bare stone and scoured earth
the seed of man and winter.
The upward flow of pines
is genesis not rewilding,
redcoat drumbeats
on the drove road still echo
louder than the rising of the water.
What will become of our standing stones
in seven generations?
If we stravaiged for pleasure,
then what will be
our remnants and our psalters?
Laurence Morris works in academic libraries and is a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. His poems have been published in Confluence, Snakeskin, Shot Glass Journal, The High Window and Scottish Mountaineer. Twitter: ld_morris