Ground Memory A cocktail of March snows, coattails of winter, ground-memory of manna. A deckchair left out, a wood-carved bear three smiles wide. Trees create a cityscape from the snow-fogs. The helter skelter flakes caught in the green wings of our garden. Clouds hatch, crown us. Comets spinning from a collision of seasons. First, the tiny spears of snow-rain. Then the flurry of white jackets.
Night River Oriental fire-flows, watery golds, candle-lit reds. The river stretches its silks, its peacock tail, to the yellow-tongued banks of the Gourock hills. The pier, lit by oracles, orange balls, whose reflections form multiple seahorses of lights, pointillism, in the shallows of the Clyde.
It was Resurrection Sunday and we sat beneath the barnyard clouds. The Gantocks, submerged, but for one hunchbacked rock sailing next to the broad thumb of the lighthouse. Some way up the Firth, between mainland and Arran, a ferry, hesitating, the tail of Bute sliding into the water. Blue veins etch through the milk carton sky, snow-crumbs harden on the Gourock hills. All the while we waited for a miracle and the hooded daffodils scarcely opened.