A modern Scottish love song from the pen of Norman MacCaig.

Written in the summer of 1972, it is in the magisterial collection of his poems edited by his son Ewen (Polygon, £19.99 paperback).

MORNING SONG

Morning, and something scratches

at the door of my mind.

Inside the door

you walk windy streets, you wash dishes,

you sit with astonishing books in your hand.

I want to praise your movements that are

so musical, so thrifty, and your stillness

that is so musical, so generous.

Though no birds sing, it's as if

birds were singing in the sweetest

of consort and it's your light

that fingers so gently

the brutal shapes and the delicate shapes

of the world. I want to tell you

how impossible it is

not to tell you how impossible

it is to tell you of the mornings

you make of this morning.

Something scratched

at the door of my mind.

I have let it in.

I make you a present of it.