Hidden in the pleats
where all of life's defeats
are sewn into the kilt
behind the walls
I've built.

When Donald,
who was my Uncle,
on the Scottish side,
took his red setters for a walk,
they more than often ran
through the fences
along the old track that led
to the power station.

He would call and they would
stop
tails stretched
like fingers pointing
to an adventure
denied.

Donald died many years ago
I hope he still takes his dogs
walking along different
tracks in the same place.