Dores Inn Revisited


The first time we came here,

Sans enfants, we were the children

Modishly trying to be grown up.


A thank you meal for your parents:

Teacherly in mood, quietly composed,

Gentle-voiced, modest-meaned.


I barely knew them. Nothing was certain,

Our offspring no more than an inkling,

A light blinking on broken water.


Now a taste of freedom, time regained.

Just a couple of anonymous covers

Dining alongside resident and tourist:


A long line of Germans chewing steak,

Mute Scots wi’ nary an aye nor a nay,

Flustered waiter fussing over the wine.


After we ate, a six-piece folk-band

Struck up their husky tune. We snuck out,

Drink in hand, to watch the bats flicker


Over the loch into the watery night.

You said you wanted me to taste

Of cigarettes. To my regret we had none


To savour, that other flavour predating us.

So instead to home, where we swiftly fell

Into the arms of sleep: toddlers each.