2070
6.243
31.viii.25
you keep the sea in your soul
so called
such days
as desert
was
top of the
head for a chimney
doom as
much
so much
luck in just one body
past an
hour these minutes
sunshine
under glass
stretch
self into a day
and more
of me upstairs
squeeze
here
sad with
the facts
a treetop
sway
prepared
again for the impossible
all the
things that could have happened
they are
with us too
2069
6.242
30.viii.25
the silence in the scream
man in
blizzard with guns
outlash of
kiddy
fiddler not quite caught
sovereign of
do-what-the-fuck-I-want
here’s an
urge
wind to
cut a man in two
imagine
the hero’s bullet hail
these
decades prepping
congealed
adrenalin
the
shooter, victim strew
winter
tough
righteous
of survival
he is admired
out of the law
even quietly,
beer over
thinks it’s
America
bushranger
too
down the
minseshaft bunker with Hitler
he’s
rubbing two sticks together
there’s
petrol
there’s
testosterone
everybody’s
glued to a set
and some
would like to see him rot
some want the
authorities hanged
latter day
Kennedy brings a dead bear
the
vaccinated come
find him
frozen
biscuit
harmless
sat up
make his
tomb the mountain
ask where did
we go wrong-
ON THE WILDCAT TRAIL AT NEWTONMORE
Strone Walk
black faced
stones turn to
sheep
sheep are the
colour of sky
roof stoved
bleat away
clouds are to fall
the unseen pigeon
a plaint
brindle mottle
the shearing’s
today
sheep turn back to
stones
in meadow wilds
track to mud
rill stream
here’s breeze from
another season
birdsfoot trefoil
the northern marsh
orchid
goldenrod, kidney
vetch
mouse ear hawkweed
– cluas luch
who wouldn’t love
what’s in these words?
not faroff though
there is one
keeps shooting at
the birds
the Coffin Road
on the Wildcat Trail
summer is walking,
it narrows the track
where at one time stood
the last Gaelic sign
hoof smooth or
mossed to tell
common sundew, spear
thistle
all the air’s alive
here’s heather
bright rush of the burn
budding spring so
harebell and the heath
spotted orchid
among low birch
fence down now
the old hut circle
…
upward the
adventure of trees
all this sad
religion
dead flowers for
freshest graves
whose ancestors
were these?
on foot to Kingussie
at my own pace
attempting thoughtless
receiving what’s sunshine
to make my own rhythm
will the world keep up?
luck spending
a way and wherever
aimless as able
under the map and by beech leaf turn
(that’s just to show a breeze)
village edge bleat
under my own steam
to the squirrel hill come
cloud of flies up close
here’s highland lumber of the sheepdog
cow
and there’s the path’s dead rabbit
distance is the town
as flightless as the next I am
propelled by just the occasional fart
it’s not shoe leather anymore
it’s some petro-carbon these days
with just some hills for company
just some floating tufts
as if by the book
it’s at my own pace
the craft with which I go
the dragging of the heels
by the River Spey
vanished but hear it
flowers of the wild
now summer shining
midge stillness too
day grassed over
a headful of hay in these horses
skein of sheep here there
barbed fence rubbings
voices fade from
bees attend the flower
the path brings a river back
this one is the Calder
warm shallows and quartz inscribed
each stone a world shaped
island at least
speckle and glitter
come dry to rest past
some like eggs
from which burst forth
the lambing ewes as signed
as grey a sky as any
the bracken way
by Loch Gynack
through dell, burn beside
past ruined mill
old walls now mossed
hands’ witness
summer leaf, pigeon high
tall pine too
up Creag Bheag
by raspberry lit
into the open then
heather chicken
flee on foot
there’s all the moor spread
I prefer the woods
sunlight uphill mottling
shade and breeze my friends
long dusk
undercrunch
and then
book open so
fall in with the lines as they fall
stop to hear the bees
lines from a stray breeze
little bridges of the marsh
a view through rust
to the sandy bottom
shadefolds of crag
look up to see such clouds as find us
the anvil and the rag
underbranch
dungwhiff, the overripe bloom
thistle and wild grass
shadow patched
things land on me here
they take off again
though we are walking away from
a sun here follows us over
meadow crossing
years more than we count
lie wrecked all around
we grow over too
hear the unseen marksmen
make weekend creatures game
meadowsweet, angelica
honey scented hours
unfortunate machinery
keeping our wilds at bay
the old hut circle
watch footing, wonder
how did they come here?
why, where did they go?
poem is the map I make
it has these hills, the gates to lock
pinks of bark and lichen grey
a quern for grain to grind
this was a twigsthrow sky
eyes up, see clouds are resting
every view’s out to the day that was
each look-in’s this heart run
clouds inching on if you’ll stay
it was the sheep knew what they knew
the underhat for summer, breathless
where was hearth and love and strife
moss now, fallen leaves
Loch Insh
pudding weather
the wind on the water
reeds dividing
sun shows the two ways at oars
a painterly place
weather upstairs
dungsides and pinespeak
headhigh in bracken
a steady willow wave
drama of tresses
ghosts see right through me
it’s almost as if one remembers
the land was this shape already when
… then a forking in the mind
there’s no midge dares this wind
call the wild swans to worship
they still belong to the king
a while since – was it the 11.45?
it’s almost through all of the day
steel rails in their silence shine
you see how I’ve not quite forgotten
the people
though that is why we’re here
an outlaw for the crime of being
Jamie Macpherson
hanged for an Egyptian and traveler, 1700
Fareweel,
ye dungeons dark and strang, fareweel, fareweel tae ye
– traditional
bagged like a cat with a blanket
thrown
so unsworded, bastard outlaw
robbin’ the lairds and loving the
crofters
his enemy the sleekit Laird Braco
toff with a grudge
who set the town clock on
when the messenger with the pardon came
at merkat cross
here’s more alive than any there
condemned for the crime of having been
born
a tune
a rant at the foot of the gallows
and how many times?
how many will deny me now
come to see, to hear
condemned to hang for the crime of existence
…no one for my fiddle? no one?
I smash it to splinters then
òran luaidh
(waulking song)
the women call and come after
Hoirean ò hi ri ìthill iù
Ho ro hiu ro éileadh
Hoirean ò hi ri ìthill iù
– traditional
mind for skelfs on the table
it’s most of the sun shone
and down through time
dawn dusk out of the otherwise day
they are translating the cloth
by wash, sing tweed the table round
with gossip, so much reputation
out of the mattering, this does
a kind of pride to sing –
the spinning, the weaving, the dyeing
too
all the before of these inches to
tighten
the rent from this, the pennies for
need
they are passing along
hearts pour out
to sing the men whaling, the men at
war
spring blooms, hills in lamblight
here’s the silly goat, croft climber
stale piss to add now
and pick up the pace
top of finger to the first knuckle
that’s how we measure the tightening
too
a peatsmoke choke
sky high as blue
climb up to the sheiling
where secretly a heart is pledged
rough hands
love told too late
daft boy
the lamb in the grass
in the singing all round
and that’s your winter warm
bothy objects
coracle for my back
a net between two to catch
the curling on the little loch
black house, choking peatsmoke
soot bricks, flails and scythes
a cruck frame, oats for quern
quaich of whiskey, toddy ladle
the dad’s stool with the Bible under
eyes adjust
‘lecky no tilly now
loungeroom’s colder
a mattress of heather or straw
there’s an animal end and there’s ours
a string across the knobs on the
cradle
will keep out the cats and the fairies
Ossian’s Fingal
fair stranger in a grey world
in the time before time was
there was a king of ships
a garden of flower and stone
some say that this is a folly
the water flows all ways at once
if I am a lie then well woven
we see the ghosts of all before
we must imagine what they’ll say
and ‘each man kills the thing he loves’
there’s no one else around
mist lifts from a vanished land
it’s ruins as far as we see
in a circle of stone
at Machrie Moor
heaving grief, tired as fear
a hard man – here’s respect!
we place it down, the crouch of bone
elk and auroch, boar and fox
these all whom he brought low
man of stone, his face on yours
here’s hate and tender too
by a sheep ridden ruin
by the dung rusted byre
a wall of were clover overgrows
by power of death alone we work
and the big man is planted to the
underlife
all this stone we’d heave
we’d haul and more
another mile we’d haul
to keep the fucker down
so golden, so green
there are no colours in the wild
but tree for cloud for cow
sky worn with its turning
lank grass cropped
the burn away
read the shade
there’s not the clock to stop
it’s over the hill
a tunnels-end yellowing
there are no such afternoons
but here’s a little stillness
all heads turned towards
just so we are observed
eking and out
on mist day, cloud day, bucketing day
on thin spit, in the blinding
sheep all sing
its bleat against bleat
in hill fleece and sky
the run and tumble
a bounce along – so we
by ewe, by ram, by wether
and colour up out of a storm
knit bleak, so you’ll say
but we stand it
some of us sidetracked
often outfoxed
and then there’s Sunday dinner
a crook in the fold
you might make a religion of this
blade by blade, the eking
shear me now, else summer
grass to sway, rhythm of dale
sing down to the shore
and some say ‘sea’
we others snore
whether or not you’re listening
sheep all sing
on mist day, cloud day, bucketing day
on thin spit, in the blinding
jamming
far green in the mist of which
a voice in the timber tells
and
welcome, fáilte
mountain moment
hoofing the wish
timbre of the stream
in a ballad bowstroke
in the eye-to-eye reminds
some goblin stoking chimney as guessed
at the unself end of a tune
and next, and is it?
quick in the paw these tricks
the dark and the light
grip to the echo, then none
deeps in the down of a long lost vowel
whole cities burned
it’s witching
to saw a world or so
in this many parts, in two
there’s time for a silence in the
after while
and as I sketch it here
there’s not a word required
