At Inverness

by Erin McGregor

At Inverness I laid for hours
listening to the night grind
through sirens and the whine of tires on pavement
until the screaming gulls
ripped the morning from her muddy banks

I shut the window
and sliced my finger on its track

later, at Culloden
walked the moor bewildered
trying to remember
the way a pilgrim ought to

in the gift shop my finger
bled through, left a rusty trail
on all those delicate soaps and
cashmere scarves

out at the lonely bus-stop
behind the government lines
I peeled back the bandage
sucked the cut, squinting
against the sun to see the far blue flags
flapping, flapping