Fishdock bridge Dundee.

Skeletal, sculptural forms of giant hogweed forest the embankment, signs warning of their danger. A lonely lozenge of a traffic island looks out onto the oil refinery whose octane scent drifts up and over the railway to the dead sailors in the small cemetery on the hillside above. We walk along the ports perimeter fence past giants bones of turbine towers and blades awaiting collection. Stacked high and wide along the river’s edge, their destiny to birl in montrous North sea winds. A rip in the cloud reveals a ships sail of blue sky high above the city.

I like sitting here.

Watching dusts of midges suspended in the low sun. Waiting for the drawing to dry. A breeze combs drying reeds, pulling its way from root through to tip. Eye, hand narrows the space between things on a soft velvet day such as this, under a half a sixpence moon.