This is about simply being very tired. It’s called ‘Lochan’.
Lochan
(For Jean Johnstone)
When all this is over I mean
to travel north, by the high
drove roads and cart tracks
probably in June,
with the gentle dog-roses
flourishing beside me. I mean
to find among the thousands
scattered in that land
a certain quiet lochan,
where water lilies rise
like small fat moons,
and tied among the reeds,
underneath a rowan,
a white boat waits.
