Time erases itself on the road,

seven whisperless hours staring at passing hills.

The childhood grey Passat is the centre of the world,

Browsing the domes and spikes of the Highlands.

Bagpipe thunder and crude heather. Sunlight licks

the wounds, plays light on the water like

Thelonious Monk. Rain taps the windows

like granules of white sugar. Wind wheels

a pale course down the hills and satisfies the trees.

Stones steeped in riverwater, all sweetpeas.

Lochaline, Tyndrum, Morvern. The lochs between

are angry organs contracting, the mountains are

whisky barrels and the birds are flying notes of music.

O flower of Scotland

Proud Edward in the driver’s seat. My father is

the person I argue with most. Taught me the lyrics

to American Pie and the national anthem.

This will be the day that I die

This will be the day that I die‍ ‍

His Glaswegian tongue makes its own music, speaks;

Marry the right man.

History is a problem you can’t solve.

Like God, you almost believed it was real.

I’ve tried to spell his sound. Salted, like the catch of the creel.

Can’t speak sweetly for the life of him. Loud as a death knell

in this old car. Mortality is a man draped in Jacobite tartan.

My father is a man whose speech is harsher than vinegar.

I do not know what my own tongue is. A slug. The road runs out.

Sure as the air escapes from the peaks and the wheels grow tired.

And sent him homeward to think again.