Poem of the month
Selected by David Underdown who also writes the commentary.
Flying Over Arran
Fields I got lost in.
I retched on the raw smells beneath
imperfect grain, dreamt
of cornflowers filling the sky.
In dreams I’ve commuted there,
always on time, shaking
off travellers’ jinxes,
opening doors, turning corners –
as if a sun-warmed stone
had kept warm for forty years.
Passing where I was born
four decades later and
thirty thousand feet higher,
New World sweat in my pores,
was not what I expected.
Pale micro-fields in a haze:
I take a picture down through space.
Only an outline shows.
Something light-years away,
a blow-up, cupped in my hand.
Robin Fulton Macpherson
