We Lose the South
in a gaggle of road-weary cyclists,
posing for photos at the top of the land.
Ahead lie rumbling currents, dark feathers
of wind gathering foot passengers in.
The crossing is short, fulmars follow the roll
of the boat, the grey keening of sea.
Set down, we see butter-rich fields, countless
stout cows the colour of darkest cream.
We stroll on beaches as tides suck at gaps
in conversation, shells are picked like strawberries.
Midnight stumbles in with hardly a change
in the air. We sit, punch-drunk on light.
Lynn Valentine writes between dog walks on the Black Isle in the Scottish Highlands. She is widely published, both in print and online. She has won and been placed in competitions. Lynn won a place on the Cinnamon Press mentoring scheme and in 2020 will be mentored by them, working towards her first poetry collection.
atriumpoetry.com 