Brig In the midst o naewhar, oan a nairrie road through a lanesome muir, a brig, abin a burn. The brig cares nocht aboot whar ye’ve bin, nor whar yer gan, it’s jist a crossin, stane faced, solid, takin ye fae yin side tae the other, askin fir nithin. Aa stop haaf wey, takin time tae gaither. Afore me the muir, the sky, the lang road hame. Bridge In the midst of nowhere, on a narrow road through a lonely moor, a bridge, above a burn. The bridge cares nothing about where you’ve been, nor where you’re going, it’s just a crossing, stone faced, solid, taking you from one side to the other, asking for nothing. I stop half way, taking time to gather. Before me the moor, the sky, the long road home.