Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no 292

Midnight In Stranraer

Oyster catcher hour
in the midnight port,
delving sleekit through
thick velvet blackcurrant;
phweeps ringing sweetly
through sleepytime streets.

No lime northern lights
to outline the dives
against the skyline.
No splintered doorway
exposing Heaven’s riches;
God flashlit in repose.

Just the lonesome echoes
of a luckless flyer, whose
hopes of a meal are fading
on the grey of the breeze.

Still she eases over
garage, police station,
with a sharp imitation
of a fat, happy constable,
blowing blue faced
on his wornout whistle.

This will be a quiet one,
save for the piper in the sky,
waiting impatient for a catch
in the bask of moonshine.

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