Ceilidh - by
I hear the voice of the bloodline / skirling down the hillsides, / rippling the weeds on the lochan,
I hear the voice of the bloodline / skirling down the hillsides, / rippling the weeds on the lochan,
Each stone is a placed thought, / an angle of intent, of care, / worn and weathered thoughtfully.
the standby boat leaves, sliding / out of the harbour mouth,
Up a path that’s barely there, jostled / by heather, holly, low-flying oak, / the child I was, shy and furious, is trying / to fight her way out.
I am knocked for six as a pair / of collared doves crash-land with a flurry / and wreak havoc like two busty floozies
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