top of page
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.
Poem copyright Larissa Reid
Artwork copyright Elspeth Knight
bottom of page