Stewart Sanderson is a poet from Glasgow, who has published and performed widely in the UK and internationally. He is the author of the pamphlets Fios (2015) and An Offering (2018), as well as the book-length collection The Sleep Road (2021) – all published by Tapsalteerie. Three times shortlisted for the Edwin Morgan Poetry Award, his work has also been recognised by accolades including an Eric Gregory Award and Robert Louis Stevenson and Jessie Kesson Fellowships. His new collection, Weathershaker, will be published later in 2025 by Tapsalteerie.

 

~

 

Stagflation

 

Whatever else this word

might mean for us, let there be

a hind too, breathing in

and out, somewhere beyond speech

filling the world’s great wood

with an animal snuffle

which grows greater and greater

till there’s no sense beside

that antlered presence

lungs big as an economy.

 

 

Shell Lamp

 

Because light listens to the ocean

I, Lady Puabi, ordered

one of my servants to clean

the flesh from this conch

 

then fill it with my favourite oil

from Meluhha, which grows sweeter

as the wick shrivels away

banishing darkness

 

from the shell, which even now recalls

the sea’s voice: what it sounded like

down there, with the waves roaring

around its smallness

 

which is mine also, in this palace

of shadows, where some nights I’ll sit

ear pressed to an unlit lamp

against dawn’s coming.

 

 

Sanaigmore

 

There, where uncounted unremembered voyages

ended and began – the great sand harbour

on Islay’s northeast coast, sheltered and safe

for paddling in the surf, we let the tide

chase us inland, not running fast enough

to keep our toes out of the sun-bright water.

 

Mairead, I gripped your hand, worried the water

would wash you from me, far too wee for voyages

though I promise you’ll be big enough

to find your own way from harbour to harbour

soon, leaving me with the ebbing tide

asking the sea to please send you home safe.

 

Because the sea is never really safe

no matter how calm and glittering the water

seems – and every time we trust the tide

we run the risk of shipwreck: no more voyages

and no hope of ever reaching harbour;

for some, wave-watching from the shore’s enough.

 

For others, though, there’ll never be enough

tempests to sail towards: Mairead, stay safe

and when you’re grown we’ll go back to that harbour

splashing again into its summer water

and you can tell me all about your voyages

if you like, while we dance with the tide.

 

Then I can tell you how, from that same tide

a skin boat spilled once – flimsy, but enough

to ferry those first Ileachs on their voyages

from the mainland, carrying them safe

over the surge of Mesolithic water

to what would one day be called ‘great sand harbour’.

 

Embroidering the stories of that harbour

I’ll tell you how from that very tide

the Irish monks stepped, sprinkling holy water

on the godless rocks, with gold enough

to tempt the north, leaving no chancel safe

when from the fjords the longships made their voyages.

 

So many voyages will have touched this harbour

and I could sift more tales safe from the tide

but it’s enough to watch the water with you.