Is there an edge of the world? I
don’t know, but if there is, we sat
on it, tossed pebbles into the foam
hundreds of feet below us.
The few lights of Skaw drifted
ghost-like, as if on the wind,
miles behind. We searched for sea
monsters, dragons, old gods,
to no avail. Not even an oversized
coalfish; just wind and waves.
We ate a midnight picnic of groats
and haggis without a word, washed
down with iron and tang, and got ready
for a long walk back on a twisty road.
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Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Monterey Poetry Review, Creatrix, and Redheaded Stepchild, among others.
Find more on Robert’s website.