I thought I had to be on something to see far enough. I thought I’d turn the sheerness of an edge into mantle, picture frame, fill it with naive angels and bad poems. I thought at times I would die. When the man came at me with a silver ambition; the minibus fast down the one-way; an ocean gargling my young limbs, the mad Canadian in Barcelona, his pupils, his bad breath. I want to remember every time like I remember my first love, my first boat-ride, first broken bone and foreign city. I want to place flowers at its bed. I want to feel the petals crack and fall and see the waves lap white dogs and the pale moon drag her heels. I want to see death spirits circling the lambs and the drunks staggering in open shirts. I want to see parents holding each other under the balding trees. I want to hear the birds reciting their poetry from the grass and taste the incredible lemon. I want to remain with. I do not wish to leave without making many more mistakes.
David Ross Linklater is a poet from the Highlands. He is a graduate of the University of Glasgow’s Creative Writing MLitt. His pamphlet Black Box was published in February by Speculative Books. He lives and writes in Glasgow. You can follow him on Twitter: @DavidRossLinkla