Clouds hang like smoke on Fyrish
and the roads rest quiet
for this time of day.
A few long-haul lorries
pass the feeder full of starlings
alive with chatter
outside the kitchen window.
Yesterday, the field was alight,
the embers taking their routes
along the wind. They say it was
burning his mother’s clothes,
to send away anything that clung:
Lavender perfume, disinfectant,
C. R. F. Irvine is an Anglo-Scottish poet.