of a covid ward
lodged in my head
Feuch an tigeadh guth
Fae stooshie tae fankle tae bouroch tae dreck / we’re steeped in the downpour of dialect.
/ for people younger than you
/ in the daily news
Nothing can be hidden from Lochaline Stores,
/ Supposing the Grocer’s has eyes and ears:
/ Not an addiction to scratch cards or whisky,
Arriving late sometimes and never
/ Quite expected, still they come,
/ Bringing a folded meaning home
/ Between the lines, inside the letter.
/ As a scarecrow…
In his dark room he is finally alone
/ with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
/ The only light is red…
My apologies, my honoured guests,
/ The newsreader lied in his last bulletin:
/ There is no sea in Baghdad
/ Nor pearls
/ Not even an island,