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RATS IN THE HAYSTACK
They stand, sweaty in the sun,
Urging the last bale to fall.
Seven boys, clutching sticks.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
Small brown bodies tumble,
exploding from the depths,
darting under blows.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
Excited shouts cover my shame,
Beating small bodies as they run,
We move as one.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
Now we stand, far from our field,
A village in an unknown land,
Waiting for our orders.
Eyes quick, hearts fast, throats dry.
- an exercise for the local writer’s group -
LITTLE MO AND GRAN GO SHOPPING
I watch them walk down the path holding hands,
different ends of the same life.
One starting out, one nearly finished,
the chapters of living,
mostly unread, stacked between them.
They pause at the hedge,
Mo head up, inquisitive and fresh,
Gran head down, watchful and worn;
both spotlighted by a stray shaft of sunlight.
Two motes transfixed in time.
They negotiate the sagging gate,
leave it disjointed, creaking and a little more lifeless.
Watching them it is hard to know
who is leading, who led.
They laugh together, sharing their childhood secrets,
their dreams of tomorrow.
- how is should have been -
SOME THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS ON THE VIEW SOUTH FROM NIGG OVER THE FIRTH
LOOKING TOWARDS INVERGORDON WITH THE MOUNTAINS AS A BACKDROP - ON A
SUNNY DAY LAST SUMMER.
Marvellous - bloody marvellous!
- a long title for a short poem -
 
 
 
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