speaking of rain

Walking in Scotland

down gray-green roads
how often in rain
how sorry I felt
walking alone
yet who else decided
to plunk myself down
in the middle of Robert Burns
country to walk and walk
along seawall
speeding cars
berried brush
castle ruin
until my knee curled
like a pink shrimp
saying no more no more
wee bonnie lass
not bonnie not
after hours of damp plodding
finding the peaked gray
stone house
the sign acknowledging
Bob slept here
not knowing a single verse
by heart
born too late for recital
or made too shy
maid not too shy
stopping in an ale house
a pub an off-license
learning to order
a wee bonnie malt
whatever they poured
in their house
and every time
the sweetest savor
all the way down