The music - latch
of time and place, pinioned,
cupped wings, dark
subterranean breathings, longing
to fly, to skin
the wind and rain - and

now, the long stream 
streaming out side to side 
carrying all the time, the 
days winging themselves 
to my back - the

light pack of high clouds 
and water sparkling - your hand 
sides me, your laugh resonates, 
the small lines at the corners 
of your eyes - you

handed me up, prised me 
from those sheets, those 
swaddling bands, my grave 
clothes, and hitched my 
wandering mind to your

strong limbs.   Climb for 
me, my love, sturdily, and 
hurt your lungs in breathing 
rare air: Scotland our 
heritage, the rough lair

waiting for my step 
to echo one
precious glen, and then 
and then will I 
know I have done 
with city grime.

We stop here only 
to garner things, and 
winnings, and maybe 
for us both, our 
medals will grant us 
stirrings, unfixed 
so we can fly.
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