Making the bath is a slow process.
She looks at him each time she pours a pail.
He rests his back against a tree.
His dirty hands pluck at his coat.
How many nights in his absence,
the thought of his skin.
The water burns but she does not feel
anything. She lifts and pours.
Suddenly he is around her, behind her.
Inside her something bursts like a small bird’s egg.
Rain hisses in the fire,
rings the surface of the bath;
circles within circles,
This poem is part of a collection of poems that won an Edwin Morgan Travel Bursary which was awarded by the Arts Trust of Scotland