UNCERTAINTY IS NOT A GOOD DOG
Uncertainty is not a good dog.
She eats bracken and sheep shit,
drops her litters in foxholes
and rolls in all the variables,
wriggling on her back, until
she reeks of them,
until their scents are her scents.
She takes sudden, windy routes
through hummocks, cairns and ditches
so you can't spot where she is
and acknowledge her velocity
at the same time. She’s fidgety,
but still careful to snuffle
through all the mud on the trail.
She can't see in the dark
but bumps her snout
on the overhang lapping
the path. Daylight’s no better:
she has to screw her eyes
tight against the glare
and, panting, just risk it, following
her nose across the landscape
her tongue brighter than probability,
brighter than heather, winberry and scree.