DILEMMA

Wake suddenly in the night, heart racing —
listen, but cannot trace the source, the cause
of my unease. Leap out of bed, facing —
fire? Burglars? Dog not barking — paws
trembling, eyes wide, but nothing in or near
the house alarms him: just a shuddering fear.

For two hours, stomach clenching, muscles tense,
I toss, unable to sleep, then doze in snatches:
dog whimpers, restless cat chatters and scratches:
what scrambled message bombards our dulled sixth sense?

Morning at last — the radio breaks the spell:
“Earth tremor in Scotland.” My guts unwind:
knowledge signals the “all clear” in my mind.
(Spiro the Greek next door woke up as well:
before the tremor came he sensed the strain.
But, he said, from experience he could tell
there was no danger: he fell asleep again!)

No danger? If the fault in the Great Glen rips
apart once more and northern Scotland slips
its ancient moorings, drifts in wanderlust,
an independent Thule, to an arctic sea —
while southern Scotland lodges perilously
aground on England’s quicksands, should we link
ourselves triumphantly with seabound Thule
or, abandoning aspirations to home rule
and independence, learn again to think
of Westminster as where the Stone of Scone
truly belongs? Will we sup (with a long spoon)
uneasily with the Sassenach? Oh what,
with the map redrawn by earth‘s erratic crust,
can orientate the swithering lowland Scot?

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