Folded card work
Loch an Iomair’s my treasure, cradled in sphagnum /high in the hills between arms of rock / with lobelia pricking…
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,
/ e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
/ dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
/ Ma sedendo…
Sphagnum moss remembers. It recalls
/ the touchdown of each lark that tumbles
/ down upon its surface, the slightness of that weight
‘Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is.’
/ Ian D. Suttie
/ It gets late early out here
/ in the lacklustre places,
/ wind in…
Here lay a fair fat land;
/ But now its townships, kirks, graveyards
/ Beneath bald hills of sand
Stone and rock
/ Boulder and pebble,
/ Water and stone,
/ Heather and stone,
/ Heather and water
/ And the bog cotton that is not for weaving.
/ Peats uncut
for Ginny Duncan
/ The paddy fields stretch beyond the horizon.
/ Where water glitters, palm trees dance.
/ Where egrets and herons flap after fish,
we have to go call a taxi
/ the light be the store isn’t working
/ the night is black
/ the moon is dark tonight