This time crouches

like an island

that wends itself

up a long loch

and yet

there are pockets

of shocking length

hidden behind mists.

Tall tales make sudden

appearances, causing

blisters of laughter

to burst, weep

in small waves

leaving me to bob

in their wake.

This time acts

like a buffer, does

for me as if it were

my mother

and I lie abed

wrapped in this net

trusting that

its weave is strong

and will carry

my weight

a long time yet.

This time lends

wisdom, like a library

stamping temporary

dates to inform me

that my card is marked.

Irene Cunningham, born in Glasgow, now reclines at the side of Loch Lomond. She has had poems published in London Review of BooksWriting WomenNew Writing ScotlandNew Welsh ReviewPoetry Scotland, Stand Magazine and many more journals. Now working on her first novel, she blogs at

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