The undertread mush swallows chorused gold
dropped from the bow of singing beech.
Across the track’s split, dark haws bloat,
as drumming sticks drip
to catch black at the hedge’s throat.
There must be new ways to be nowhere
between munition stores, likely
piled inside with old clothes in rat-made nests.
Still fermenting memories of wars,
outside spells more recent tales in aerosols.
Few bring dogs this far from homes today,
to peer past the sewage pumping station.
Something cuts a quiet trace, out beyond
this endless mist, this smirr. I peer to find Inchcolm,
but dream up feet, pattering over forgotten water.
Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in many places; she reviews in DURA. Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word. Recently, her site-specific poem was installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. She’s currently Makar of the FWS.