NORMAN MacCaig addresses his fellow creators in another art form and claims to be envious of them. The piece dates from July 1975 and can be found in the wonderful posthumous volume of his poetry, edited by his son Ewen (Polygon, £25 hardback).

COMPOSERS OF MUSIC

Musicians, calling in your circles and phases,

helpless in their ruminant fire,

unable to speak anything

but the laws of miracles,

how can you fail to shed

your tremulous humanity? How can you carry

your spongebag heart, your tick-tocking brain

along those orbits where you go

without skidding – without dying

into the clusters of notes you explode

in the earth’s dark mind?

I regard you with joy and with envy

from my thicket of words.