for Wojciech Bonowicz

Old love never rusts.
This is what they say in Poland,
in Germany. This is what we speak of
at Crear. Outside
there’s the smell of rain and fox;
blackberries entangled with ferns.
The sheep cough like old men.
Across the water, Jura and Islay
change colour all day:
grey-green, grey-blue,
so many grays, light and dark,
seep into the greens and blues
of grass and sky and water.
The sun brings white gold;
white gold for old love that never rusts —
What would you say, Robert Burns?
This is where we gather 
to listen to your songs. This is where
                 we gather.