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Prints

Like a pet that comes in wet and muddy,

fur matted with adventure, you return,

bright-eyed and wild, from your nocturnal jaunt.

‘Load the pictures in,’ you say,

handing me your camera, cold as frost.

You’ve been haunting Invergordon’s shore,

photographing the rigs at Nigg.

I slot the memory card into a USB.

(Your work’s all digital now, and done at home.

At hefty cost, you print your own giclées.

You can’t be arsed with darkrooms or with labs.

Your trusty Topcon’s in a cardboard box somewhere;

You’ve thrown your dusty chemicals away.)

‘Call me when they’re in,’ you say, and scoot

to the kitchen, footmarks trailing from your boots.

The images are blurry. They were bound to be –

hand-held, no tripod, in the wuthering night.

That’s how you want it. Twenty years ago,

you travelled with a swag of gear

and strove to get exposures right.

Now you’re chasing arcs of feral light,

smears and shadows, eerie and mysterious.

You’re ready to evolve. You’re getting serious.

Onscreen, umpteen skies and oil rigs manifest

before us as you sip your drink. You note

the ones that might be worth the paper and the ink.

Then you begin to print. Most likely until dawn.

In your world, Art is never virtual.

It’s physical, a thing; it can be held,

you are compelled to make it real.

By morning, there’ll be rejects cluttering the floor

and you will ask me which, of several contenders,

is ideal. We’ll be agreed. This is ‘the one’.

The one which, when you’re gone, will bear the seal

of your approval.

If someone, passing by, observed us chatting,

they’d think we’re making no big deal of this.

A few prints shifted to one side, an omelette, a kiss.