Skye (Bus Trip)

Julian Colton

A rusted overturned car

seen from my passenger's window

what becomes of transgressors -

left to rot in a roadside field

out in the cold.

'Incomers are never fully accepted'

lowland accented grievance

Big Man up to visit the kid

lantern faced, faded jeans and Scotland shirt.

Thirstily wipes his mouth

talks of friends who succumbed to drink

the Portree wife who kicked him out

filleted anti-social habit

in favour of a trawler-man

quieter nights in and homework being done.

Silent gaze into horizontal rain

pain and regret, half-remembered landmarks half-seen rising Cuillin Hills.

'That's a ghost town since built the bridge,'

aged locals nod, slyly humouring him?

Smaller than imagined

my wonder why connection took so long to build joins thoughts of island races grunts from the old drunk on the back seat

clinking bottle of vodka

rolls down the aisle, then hastily retrieved.

Wary of psychotic behaviour

disbelief at my being a writer

at fag stops in Fort William, Kyle of Localsh I engage Big Man in conversation:

'I've done this journey pished and sober and I'm strongly in favour of neither.

See the driver, I ken him

if that old laddie was me

he'd take the bottle or throw me off.'

But Old Laddie's a native

being drunk his accepted role

like farmer, tree feller and fish smoker exclusive as his clutched duffle bag such remoteness brings to mind Mackay Brown and Crichton Smith.

Another empty passing shinty pitch.

Since before Glencoe, post bonny bank

of Loch mond - wilderness of majestic lakes heather laden fells.

In hotels, souvenir shops, tourist information the attitude 'take us or leave us' prevails not having to try too hard the unspoken maxim of grandeur.

Julian Colton