Of The Many Stags by Steve Rudd

All poems start with a lump in the throat

Said Robert Frost; well, the lump I’d speak, my lump,

Is a lump of rock, in Clyde water, fourteen hazy miles clear

Of the blue coast of Ayrshire; a granite knot

That binds up my best memories in a bundle.

A slice of my life, on screen now,

One-sixtieth of a second, Lamlash Bay, me and the dog

Two thousand five, and Holy Isle

Seven years ago, now digitized

Sleeps blurred in heat behind me, the horizon.

Mountains with Gaelic names, high scree

Where no man treads, stones, chambered tombs,

Contours the long-forgotten lines of territory

Atlantic rain soft-blurs epitaphs

On lonely graves of nameless sailors;

Sandy shores, Kildonan and Kilmory

Blackwaterfoot, bucket, spade,

Seals, otters, Basking Sharks,

And lighting driftwood fires on pebble beaches,

And pods of porpoises, Kilbrannan Sound,

All still exist in stasis, beyond my reach;

Somewhere between the sunset, and Kintyre

The ferry-boat is always halfway to Clanaoig;

The Calley Isles is coming from Ardrossan

The sun is always setting on Goatfell, Glen Chalmadale,

Last day of holidays, as I stand on Brodick Promenade

Waiting the Calmac boat’s return, the lump in my throat

Is Arran, being my poem, once again.