Westering Home

The smell of the sea

As salt on rusting engines,

Driving to the coast

Descent of the great

Chuffing worm, hungry to find

Food hard by the cliffs

Winter a stop-gap

For life in the fields, preserved

Slow under the snow

Down through the Great Glen

West to waterways, the Isles

Summoning in cold

The chill of the north

Enticing engines to the

Coast, where they must cease.

Head of steam follows

Hard upon the tracks in the

Snow, pointing to sea

Blood on the tracks does

Not mean blood, but the passing

Of time into rust

Life in December

Animates charcoal engine,

Driving home to dark

Engine lines stretching

Their web lines west to the coast

Gleaming with the dew

Spiral to the sea

The grey and furling account

Of engine’s movement