A pale pink sash to the morning
wraps itself against a tight fitting
holding the heart of a songbird in my hand,
Rolled up jeans and skinny white legs,
guddling in the burn.
It is March.
What are you doing ? we ask.
Looking for treasure, he answers with a grin.
Gets out his wallet and shows us a tooth, thinks it might be human….
Another lad says he found a 1970’s coke bottle.
Must be it looks so old.
They are waiting for their mate to finish work.
Bright pink feet.
Searching under stones.
Men being boys again,
at the cold.