In envelopes of my collection box
My heartache rests beside my lover’s hair
Rusted pins and unused pens
Worn well and never used.
Could opening be the end?
I drove a long night
Through windy roads
Of Scotland’s y’Or
Great Bras d’Or,
And long wild grass on feral land:
Swan song I’ll sing again.
Head can see, alighted way
Matchsticks lite Borrower’s torch;
Down a cold tunnel with dripping water.
Lover’s name in a letter she carried.