Mythos

by Hugh McMillan

Pines grow in
mist this morning.
Cloud has fallen to earth
and the sky is a skin
on a well of blue waiting
to burn. In an hour or two
the heat will hit us,

we will find ourselves
suddenly standing
in the unfurled morning
by a barely moving river,
the hills with collars of spill
like gold. Imagine such a land

and its stories.
The tale of how Eithne
or Taliesin rid the land
of snakes and square-heads.
Of how wolves
killed the last shooter
in the lounge bar

of the Buccleugh.
All we need for this
is love, freedom
and high fever.
In such weather
dreaming is simply
borrowing from tomorrow.