On a remote Scottish island,
an excited TV presenter whispers your name to camera
implying only patience stands between us and you,
We, however, have only ever been teased
by your footprints; leftovers from your meals
found on rocky shores
and stories told in hotel breakfast rooms.
Told in quieter whispers when we return home
are stories of your kind in our city
leaving footprints by our less romantic waters.
Our paths cross yours on every weekend walk.
But you remain invisible.
Previously published on Misty Mountain Review.
(I have, since writing this poem, seen otters in Edinburgh and several other places round Scotland)