Skein of Montrose Basin
Flying wedge-like
as wool feathers the wind,
the geese are leaving the basin.
Where do they go?
How long till they arrive?
Will the plump make stops on the way?
At first a few
will arise together.
Later thousands flock to the sky.
Who leads the skein
and rides the windy tides
to the land of their winter dreams?
If I could fly,
wings soaring up with them,
I’d write poems with my pink feet.
And send all my pals a post card: “Wish you were here!”
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