Black wing rock
That day on the shore at Gullane,
a thousand black birds
were congregating on the Forth,
an elongating crease of feather and bone
moving as one in the milky sea,
rising forwards, drifting down,
as the hills of Fife went from gold
to black and we sat on the square rock,
the dog nesting in the sand,
watching the folding and unfolding of wings,
looking back, past the islands, the pilot boats,
the waiting tankers, as if seeing it all
for the first time.
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