Poem: Helensburgh in Winter

Flags flapping raw
and a low shaft of sun
splits the weak, watery skies
with its rays on Ben Bouie.
The weather's not threatening - yet.

From deserted golf course
we leave tangled weeds dead
and dark woody skeltons
to wander wet streets by
the soggy grass verges
- past stony grey houses -
to mouldering pier in the Clyde.

Bracing,
the sea breeze,
I come here to think.

This is a town made of elements:
some earth, much water,
and a small, vital spark.