Eardley-lit, we pursued a full moon road,
scaled shining miles inland
from the slap of the slip
in the Sound by the garrisoned ferry.
We pedalled, chattered and laughed it
back to the garden’s tethered caravan.
Not so much as a torch to light our bikes.
A couple of beers apiece,
but we could see a world, stars
and small islands scattered in night’s warmth.
What the driven world might perceive of us,
was far from our concern.
Had one car clipped too fast across the moor,
all those lives we hadn’t lived, might
have been quick-blootered out,
crashed into a ditch, strewn about
with our shared four decades
scrambled among smashed shells.
But we stayed safe, pushed on,
wrapped in midnight’s kindness,
able to pick out, in time,
passing places, signs, odd panes of light,
secure in the tripwired solidity of night
which hid from us when we’d not belong.
Beth McDonough’s poetry is widely anthologised and published in Magma, Gutter and elsewhere. Her first solo pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word. Her site-specific poem has just been installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. She is currently Makar of the Federation of Writers (Scotland). She is frequently found walking, cycling and foraging by the River Tay. and swimming in its depths.