Yoke 

 

The red-haired one slides his broken sense of self across the bar; 

His friends jostle and shout 

Lining the room’s sea-torn edges, 

Adding another layer of voices 

To its drunken wood-panelled histories. 

The pale green ghost of his father 

Rests in his usual corner, content 

To see his son’s struggle 

With fish and air and waves 

Play out just as his own did.

It’s reassuring; the continuity, the time, the place; 

The map repeatedly routed 

As another round of stars makes its way 

Across the taut Burntisland sky.