under the bridge tonight? With perfect tide and timings,
weather for the spectacle?  Get to the bridge for the best view.
Are all the tall ships passing? Just by breathing we are all burning alive,
or so I read. All the tall ships are passing and I have not seen
the Northern Lights, though I had the perfect tide, twice. A solar flare
on solar wind. Tell me, what does that say? One hundred years ago— yesterday,
in the grand scheme of things— children arrived at the door of a morning
to the old school house. Solar flares on a polar wind, their breath little sails
by the loch, a brick of peat for payment. All the tall ships are passing
and there are so many bird calls I do not know— skylark, pipit, thrush— save
that bumbling woodpigeon’s I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go. All
the tall ships are passing and I did not see the Northern Lights: Somewhere—
next door, in the grand scheme of things— people put children under rubble,
under fire. I pressed my soles against my husband’s calves, let my children sleep
in a clutch. Weathered the spectacle. Tell me, what does that say?
All the tall ships are passing and I do not know the quick-fire of
a nightjar at dusk. All the tall ships are passing but give my boy a
grey day, a dank field— he’ll charge, calves screaming, arms luffing
— shouting I love my life! We are all passing
by the door of a morning, we are all burning alive. Get to the bridge
for the best view. All the tall ships are passing. And I don’t want to go. I don’t want
to go.