East Coast Scotland (Reflection)

I have spoken with others

about the effect of this sea upon us.

The North Sea, I mean.

Some have given it other names

more suited to the surly waves,

the unrelenting grey, sad siren home.

For sure, it is the sea that does not

say what it means.

Anyway, it watches us, this ocean.

It lashes with waves, retaliating

for some inherent crime unsaid.

Though it may pretend for half a dozen days a year,

it has no friendly shores.

They came from Byzantine with Andrew's bones

upon the crest, but wished they'd landed

somewhere better, I guess, than here.

Some seas bless, but this one never.

It is like the Baltic's bad brother,

too evil to harbour sea monsters.

Worse than that, I blame it for the way we were.

(I've left and can't say for those still there.)

The chronic lack of confidence with us,

from the Moray Firth to St Abbs.

What began it, or what atavistic

thing we are atoning for forever, unknown.

And how laughably it compares with 

the other side of the nation,

the gallus coast of Glasgow and all that.

So when I return, I shudder and cast little things

to appease as votive in the water, not knowing why.

Water eyes watch. Waves sigh.Slack tides deride.

Language not to be deciphered by the likes of me.