At the Tartan Bonnet
next to the Smithy’s stall,
a picture labelled monster
is hanging on the wall.

The photograph is fuzzy,
looks like a bunch of tyres,
held to a piece of deadwood
by nails and string, or wires.

The locals say that tourists
are gullible, rich fools,
that no sign has been noted
by scientific tools.

The view over the water
is really rather good;
another compensation
is finest ale and food.

But of a Friday evening,
a face at the back door;
she sups her twenty gallons
and swims away once more.