A Scottish picnic basket
Look at me, Sally and Ian's
picnic basket. Winters are long
but summer through I creak and groan
under daily preparation -
early summer, that is -
when light creeps round the hours
and dinner is al fresco
usually at a picnic table
I consider my own -
nine miles up the road
in Scotland:
pure air and stunning views,
large leafy silences.
Sometimes in the dusk
of a waterfall, sometimes
beside a quiet, quiet loch.
A swan swam up the loch,
two miles and nothing else.
I creak. I carry salad,
coffee, a hot stew,
bread, bananas, cheese,
biscuots or chocolate.
A modest routine
for the summer's start.
But what's this?
Apples? Sandwiches?
Packing at midnight for morning?
Oh NO!
We're going to England.
Sally Evans
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