Single track Heaven

Going north in single track heaven,
a black line through the Highland Line,
was what we did each summer.
Dad banged the horn to blow away the crows
gorging on the road kill rabbits.
Just two hours from home,
where white houses are laid back
from the lanes as if afraid to pose
for picture postcard fame.
Gazing closer we saw no thatch
or kail yards.
Home here is as double glazed
as anywhere,
with more cause perhaps.
The tolling gales rip up
pines like toothpicks
in the winter time.
The freezers are full of
Bird’s Eye and chips
bought on trips
to the local town.
Who would wish the Highland to be
dyeing the burns red with blood
as in an older dream?
Better that the rebuilt
black house nets in tourists
like fat herring from the bay.