Once, on the coastal path from Cellardyke to Crail

– when I couldn’t see anywhere to get to –

a kid goat bleated up to me, I leant down 

and she placed a hoof on my leg, let me stroke her.

Her keen eyes sought mine, and my mind

turned, sunlit as the North Sea.

Then there was Maggie, my sister’s ward.

I was scared of her bulldog-ness at first,

kept back. She had problems, exuded a leadenness,

as though stunned by her life.

                                             One evening, when I was

bound by that inner maelstrom that ruins everything,

she trundled up to me, and rested her chin on my knee.

She saw me, wanted to be near me.

When Dr P___ tried to teach us how to live,

he doubted ‘animal therapy’. Not enough evidence.

I couldn’t get my words in order. The air

would scramble them. They flapped in my head,

hot and trapped, like a pit canary.

I write to give evidence – of the measureless,

who pull me out of oubliettes.