Remember that cottage we used to imagine,
All those years ago under the trees?
Out back, mountains glimpsed through leaves;
Two bikes resting against the front wall.
Right at the gate, and a mile on,
The village of Toome with its one street,
It’s one bar, old man Mellick
Under the family portraits poking at the fire.
Left and the land rises to meet Murtagh’s Hill,
Fields lined with grey stone, flowers blossoming in the early heat.
I still go there most nights
On my long walks after everything has closed;
Straight on under the street lights past Farley Wood
To Doon Lake in the dark with its sunken boat,
Reeds silver in the moonlight where the water shows,
Our nearest neighbour already up (terrified he’ll die)
Calling from across the estuary
For one of us to reply.