Had we known its connotations, the way a word
can rot like fruit, the outer layers growing
vulnerable and soft. The w weakens, falls
as if from a sinking boat, the a—so outwardly tough
in its singularity—hollows like soft butter
under a finger. What remains is what we are waiting for: it.
But the t dives with arms spread wide,
a cross crashing on the shore.
Front page image from Gregor Maclennan.