MORE ABOUT THIS BOOK
Where should we find consolation,
dwelling in the north? Amid the stunted
desperate plant life clinging
to its edges, thriving on atmospheric
vengeance or neglect? Of two moods,
fragile and invasive, it gazes out to sea
as its character bends inland.
And why defend our poignant attempts
at agriculture, the gall
of our entrepreneurs? The defining
mid-winter pageants performed
in a somnolent rage? The leisure class
commends the virtues of hard work
above all else, and we labour under
frost-cramped statutes, the black
letters of legislation, in hog-reek
and land-driven slag, middle-aged
from birth and, given our devotion
to slandering this place, illogically
xenophobic. We could as soon move
south as rise above it. Are sympathies
inseparable from what one does
to stay alive? What is a self
but that which fights the cold?
SAUCHOPE LINKS CARAVAN PARK
Gulls up at dawn with swords and shields,
if dawn only in low season, in the week
we can afford. My love, who negotiated with a Silk Cut
in his wheel hand the unfamiliar roundabout
to the A915 at Kirkcaldy, sweeps droppings
from the paved deck like an owner, with his whole heart.
He grew old not thinking about himself.
So it follows our vacation home is not ours, but let
by the company on certain conditions, for certain uses
pertaining to a quiet enjoyment of sea views
beyond the lower lots, signed-for with the understanding
our initiative shall likewise be applied
at the company’s discretion.
The dogs we don’t have must be leashed, our wireless
fee charged daily. Here is the rent reminding
tenants they don’t own, interest confirming
for the borrower to whom the principal belongs.
Here is the insurance to tell us we’re not
safe, and here is the loophole which allows it
to not pay. The week he’s scraped together is now his.
My old man, who raises his spirit like a lamp,
collects Stella cans tossed from the raceway
down the hill overwritten with gorse and cow parsley;
and who, discovering the bulb beside the door
burnt out, will, cursing happily, replace it with the spare
I laughed at him for stowing in the glove box.
Copyright © 2019 by Karen Solie