Epektasis

I’m hame at last—
Berlin hingin ahint ma een
like neon through haar.
The streets ran smooth,
trams slidin clean as thought.
Then the airport shut—
runways clasped,
an I stayed langer than meant,
a body caught
at the seam o weather.

Noo the storm’s here tae.
The Ressie’s black wi it,
watter shoved intae banks,
telt whit shape tae tak.
Man-made, aye—
but no obedient
when the wind gets haud.

I canna gang doon.
The path’ll be glaur an skelf,
rain slappin ye daft.
Ma banes ken it already—
each yin sayin its say:
Dinna be brave. Be wise.

Frae the windae
I ken the swans’ll keep low,
cauld-white, drawin stillness tight,
as if the watter might break
if they let go.
Coots scart the edge,
ducks gabble,
life arguin wi itsel
where order thins.

Ma mither’ll no be there the day an aw.
She aye keeps step—
weather or nae—
pockets fu o wee favours.
The dogs’ll pass,
snouts oot, een bright,
then hesitate—
luck missin its turn—
an move on.

Somewhere planes are comin in low.
Bellies gleamin.
The day Jenny’ll no lift her heid for them,
like she aye does,
readin routes like promises
cut intae air.
The sky’ll close back up.
Nae witness.

Berlin had rivers, parks—
hush in its ain places—
but nae this hold,
this weathered wait
when the warld steps back
an lets ye bide.

Sae I bide.
Warm bath haudin me still.
Rain writin its story on glass.
The Ressie roars oot there,
contained an strugglin,
an for the now
that’s enough.