The Plinky-Boat - by
Something near to true
night-darkness. The children
are playing the Plinky-Boat –
a xylophone made
from a reclaimed yoal
hobbies
Happiness - by
I’ve made my own Museum of / Happiness, which isn’t built of brick / or stone or wood…
Pruning - by
I dock the dead, the damaged and diseased;
/ the gnarled and dry come tumbling from the heights
/ until I stand knee-deep…
Aquafit - by
I join the usual coven in the pool, ladies past
a certain age, warming up their tonsils.
Random - by
for Robyn Marsack
/
/ Go take a book down from the shelf and open it.
/ Listen, this isn’t ‘book’ but box,
/ box full…
For my Grandmother Knitting - by
There is no need they say
/ but the needles still move
/ their rhythms in the working of your hands
/ as easily
/ as if your…
The Whale-watcher - by
And when at last the road
/ gives out, I’ll walk –
/ harsh grass, sea-maws,
/ lichen-crusted bedrock –
/
/ and hole up the cold
/ summer…
Sărbători - by
Iarna şi primăvara, de sărbători circulau mici pachete în Transilvania; o pereche de şosete împletite, mănuşi din resturi de lână,…
Beachcomber - by
Sunday, for fear of the elders,
I sit on my bum.
What’s heaven? A sea chest with a thousand gold coins.
The Fiddler - by
A fine player was he …
/ ‘Twas the heather at my knee,
/ The Lang Hill o’ Fare
/ An’ a reid rose-tree,
/ A bonnie dryin’…
The Whistle - by
He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden-tree,
/ He trimmed it, an’ he wet it, an’ he thumped it on…
Canoeing on Loch Veyatie, Late Summer - by
Slicing the trout-speckled slipsteam,
/ over the dark silver of Veyatie,
/ today, a restless and turgid loch –
/ fifteen fathoms of darken dream.
/
/ Angry clouds…