Unland

by Stewart Sanderson

I know a word
for the weather-beaten places

a word for where nothing
will grow but what
we cannot eat

for where the land
is worn at and washed

away by waters
which erode
soil as the stillness

does this word for where
no nation matters

for where the little
lochans lap
up ever so lightly

at the louring sky
and hidden

drove roads wind
downhill towards
infinity