I am back here to see the sky. Clouds sweep in on a westerley breeze, curl, swell, froth, spill over, to the drowsy cow parsley in the hedgerows. A Ukranian flag flutters above three men standing by their sheds watching the world where the river meets the sea. Retired, off- shore workers, seen the world and then some, but home is Ferryden, always. Not Montrose, no, that causes offence. A chuckle. Beyond , the fields rise up , everything green and stretching. Ships in the harbour. Sixty to eighty jobs promised. They’ve said that before. Skylark and lapwing song mark the edge of this land. And then sky, just sky. Always.