Fort William to Mallaig
Traveling north through the north we make our way
anachronistically, under the auspices of nostalgia
and steam, the occasional sun a cloud-diffused gold
spread thin on the hills as the lamplight of history.
We’ve taken leave, here along this loch-hewn coast
to reaffirm the need to know in situ what we knew
from home. These coursing tracks can take us there
not take us back. Past bloodless sands. That cairn
cast from local stone as something near-forgettable.
It’s how things go. No meaning meaning what we
hoped. While now we’re told that somewhere deep
beneath our seats entombed in concrete for a century
lies the body of a horse. And on its back all futures
soon unfold. A tunnel of darkness swallows us whole.