Gordon Mason

Aberfeldy

A frenetic firebird

fills the skies,

with a philharmonia

of Stravinsky strings

as we plunge from

Meall an Lochain

into a footbath

of fermented froth:

a veiled vacuum: a fungus

of microscopic crystals

that festoon Aberfeldy.

Flickers of streetlights,

stooped and scrunched

lonely figures,

unaware of the light

and life above,

creep past as we form

a crawl, a worm of drivers

in this ephemeron

clinging to the ice cold Tay.