At dawn, a gosling stands upon the lake
He doesn’t fly or swim
He’s fake
He’s driftwood?
Grains, or bars upon his wings?
There’s things suspiciously like other things
Five times a day the trains
From London mostly, Edinburgh and Wick
Disgorge their loads of promises and pains
The visitors come fast
And thick
They chafe at their disguise
They groan
Forlorn, they stumble over stones
And underneath the surface cables hum
The cameras are tucked from view
The Starlink dish is new
A winch to drag the carcasses
A gun
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