Carbost

High above the farm
fat-handed with drink
muttering fuck,
loose cannon
among skedaddling sheep.

Loch Harport
soggy now below
a tidal marsh
a mud mirror
for butterscotch dark.

Across a buffalo’s back
toward the spilled paintbox
of the sky
a scarecrow learns lessons
from a humourless wind.

Below, beside the lamplit hearth
children are learning Scrabble
tasting peat in water
doodling their Loch Ness Monsters
missing Daddy

while I, wild crow against
a Turner sky
rage in silhouette
search on and on
never finding 
the sunset.