The season’s triumphs – still
and brackish water gleaming,
the log-stack at the wood’s core,

a rusky pony blissing
in the early dusk, as hammerflush
dances from the anvil;

the owl moans through late sun haze
and the barnyard reels
with shadowy dens for hiding in.

Glimpsed in a window,
past sifting peat smoke, a brisk girl
near calm, known to us all.

That the depths beneath the bridge
are cold and cruel
is not in question, though no one yet

will venture a name for
this stout boy striding out
whose fate it is to plunge

into the mile-deep pool
and rope the great bell, lost to us
these thousand years.

Roddy Lumsden


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