After a certain age all of us, good and bad, are guilt-stricken because of powers within us which have never been realised; because, in other words, we are not what we should be
Edwin Muir
An old pot seething with dissatisfaction which fortunately can be relied on never to come to
the boil
Edwin Morgan on Scotland
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Sutherland,
by Islay McLeod
‘Femmes de Tahiti’ by Gauguin
He grows tired of her pale skin,
red-grey hairs, the barely visible lashes,
breasts untouched by sun,
toes white as stone.
He longs for the feel of Tamil silvered-black,
eyes of Tahitian pearl, a Polynesian back,
Haitian caramel danger, Brazil’s fiesta flesh,
brown adorned with gold beneath the burka.
But he is mongrel white, which is in truth
colourless, washed out. He burns
when exposed to the passions of summer.
Haar closes in upon his timid soul.
Gerard lives in Aberdeen. He is the Scottish Review’s makar and contributes a poem each month. Publications include: ‘Failing Light’ and ‘Of Love and Water’
