The Man Who Moved from Shetland to Glasgow

For Bruce, who opened a window in Glasgow and wondered where the wind was

Where is the wind?
It’s lifting sand into river veins
which hover above the beach.

Where is the wind?
It’s throwing up gobs of froth –
they dance up basalt cliffs,
flee across sheep-shorn downs.

Where is the wind?
It’s lashing the cars on lonely roads
where heath is cut with peat-black wounds.

Where is the wind?
It’s flattening the cotton grass to red,
it’s flipping leaves on strained branches,
it’s whipping up white lace shawls on slate blue sea.

© Chrissie Gittins, from Sharp Hills (Indigo Dreams, 2019)
By kind permission of the author