Poem: ‘Scotland’
Frederick Seidel, 5 June 1980
A stag lifts his nostrils to the morning In the crosshairs of the scope of love, And smells what the gun calls Scotland and falls. The meat of geology raw is Scotland: Stone Age hours of stalking, passionate aim for the heart, Bleak dazzling weather of the bare and green. Old men in kilts, their beards are lobster-red. Red pubic hair of virgins white as cows. Omega under Alpha, rock hymen, fog penis – The unshaved glow of her underarms is the sky Of prehistory or after the sun expands.
