Catterline

At the cliff’s edge, I hold fast to a wooden bench, blisters of old paint leave hard flakes under my nails. 

One of the doors in a string of cottages lies open. I watch as you gather pastels and paper and put them in an old pit bag. You duck to avoid a skewwhiff gutter and hurry down the row.

I drift to the opposite end of the village and eat my sandwiches surrounded by sky. I wonder if you have a flask with you. This is coarse land and lonely.

Near the burn I find you again, fingers smearing pigment across the page. Dots of yellow-eyed daisies and streaks of cornflower blue. Wiping your broad hands along the length of your thighs. 

You tear a seed-head from its stalk and wrap it in a piece of cloth. This becomes part of a painting. Half a century later, I see it in an exhibition and make you my friend.

At the harbour, I sit on the shore. Marvel at the cold, clear water. I take home a handful of pebbles. Red stone shot with grey. Circle them around the base of a flowering cherry tree.