The turning tide
These dark and housebound days I am not sure if I can
thole it anymore: his moods; the coldness and his scowls.
But today is bright, sun sinking early but golden
on winter's arm, a promise: a tease; a hope.
We're on the foreshore, sequins glittering
a path to Arran, oystercatchers peeping to each other
and clouds snagging like hanks of wool. Floating
in lapis satin, Ailsa Craig bumps the horizon
and there he goes, heavy-footed over the tarred rocks.
He's rushing, scattering mirror pools and scaring crabs.
The ebb-tide sand has a dangerous shimmer, bladderwrack
simmers on the high-water line and I puzzle if I can manage it.
He lifts his head, looks round and stops, wind-blown.
Smiling, he stretches his gloved hand to me.
Finola Scott's poems are published on postcards, tapestries and posters and in magazines including New Writing Scotland, One Hand Clapping, PB and Lighthouse. Red Squirrel Press published her pamphlet Much left Unsaid. She is currently Makar of the Federation of Writers (Scotland). You can find more poems here.