Loch Ordie Poem by Garry Stanton

She is whirls, of
argent and raven,
she is pools of
unbroken eternity,

where jagged pike,
honed abyssal arrows,
consume
blank space.
Here is
Stygian subterfuge, an
onyx underworld, as

midnight anglers (from another world)
attempt to pierce the
primeval meniscus. It is
their calling
from the cave.

O, She is Female! , moulding
herself into lichened glacial
granite,
and insisting upon the
inundation of the
aisles- intellectual
inside this Man-poet.
Liquid,
she is, but deceptive: Muse-elemental.

October moon, lighted within by
blushing Tranquility, illuminates
tiny tragedies below, as forces
erupt,
snagging on lines the necks of men,
dragged, snagged, under, as

trout gallop
across seething surfaces,
in their flight across
millennia,
pursued,
harrowed by ancient fear,
reaching far beyond
articulation.