In Days of Darkness - by
Two days before your death, you wrote / There is not much to report from here.
Two days before your death, you wrote / There is not much to report from here.
Except for Iain, who looks both found & lost, / already haunted by his own baffled ghost…
Scotland where can we find you, / where are you hiding your gallus self?…
Saint Andra o the Blessed Beuk, / as Scottish as a Heelan Duke.
The tide is sidling up to Almorness, / unmet by those returned now north & west / away from here.
Who are we remembering? / Millennia of the distant, recent dead, / all men, women, children lost to / wars…
Buddy can you spare a rhyme, the time, / a line for Paisley?…
I think of windows as I think of caves…
I’ve made my own Museum of / Happiness, which isn’t built of brick / or stone or wood…
Home is where the heart is / or home is where the art is…
Fae stooshie tae fankle tae bouroch tae dreck / we’re steeped in the downpour of dialect.
/ …