Fever

I lie, mind-muffled,

bathed in perspiration,

confined, as they say, to my room.

Confined to restless

half-wakefulness.

All round me, windows

open up into escape routes.

Hebridean seas fall

on white sands and black rock.

Steps rise to El Calvari

in the Majorcan heat.

The gentle sufficiency

of Galloway holds its lakes

and hills, bird rich.

Barren shales fall into

Wast Water’s wild darkness.

The black soapstone statue

takes me on my daughter’s

African journey,

whilst my other stands

prayerful in a cathedral pool.

And there, in the corner,

waiting with its hidden music

is my cello, drawing me into memory.

For the moment,

people are too much

to bear and I spin

into shapes and songs.