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Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from Poetry Nation 4 Number 4, 1975.

Impressions of Edinburgh Paul Mills

Mountains were travelling with us
Converging and falling away like swallows
A cloud caught the abrasion of the sun
Red-raw, fraying. The road steepened.
My hands are at the wheel, my left eye
In the inside mirror, widens.
Can it recognise itself this far?
So far, so wide, the moor will never close
There'll be no city over its wild domes
Ahead the sky arranges its reception:
What multiple interweavings
In those streaks, stilled there:
Those you will meet, those you will become.
Shale-brown, lead-grey houses
Lit windows in August, floods in gutters
Mountains suspended North in threads of rain.
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