A fresh-cut blade of summer grass
blows into the book. The seed head
trembles as it slices the print. It demands
I look away from page-locked words,
from elsewhere to now.
A beetle joins in, gloriously iridescent
it journeys the poem. Strolling
from north to south, notched antennae
inspect the stanzas. Possibly it’s hunting
for mention of dock leaves.
Tiny feet examine how the piece ends.
Ignoring line breaks, golden sheened,
it settles in the spine’s flexed tension.
Permits me to read on. But
not turn the page.
Finola Scott
Finola Scott confesses writing is a compulsion. Her poems appear widely: New Writing Scotland, Lighthouse, Gutter, Paperboats. Although she knows poetry won’t change the world, she continues. Winner of the MacDiarmid Tassie, Runner-up in McLellan (Scots) and Badenock competitions.