Memory as clear as a perfect summer;

two-funnelled steamship, day trip

to Inverary. Pier to pier under fug

of smoke; going below

to watch engine cranks turn mesmerically;

on the way back people on deck

singing to an accordion band.

 

Most of the Clyde paddle steamers

scattered or scrapped. One lay berthed

on the Thames, lost. Just

the cash-strapped Waverley,

still sailing each summer day

for the islands or up the sea lochs;

Kyles of Bute, hills of Argyll, mountains of Arran.