Assisi - by
The dwarf with his hands on backwards
/ sat, slumped like a half-filled sack
/ on tiny twisted legs from which
/ sawdust might run,
/ outside the…
beggars
Processional at the Winter Solstice - by
He has gone down into darkness at the wrecked end of the year
And is lying, gaberlunzie, in the needled nest of frost.
The arctic thrushes call for him although he cannot hear.
Mercy O’ Gode - by
Twa bodachs, I mind, had a threep ae day,
/ Aboot man’s chief end…