Sunday, 17 September 2017


It’s a hairst o a kine, fan i meen’s at big
An here’s me in a sheddie o ma ain
Wi ma telescope scowthin heaven
For a sicht o God. Fit wye nae? I was telt
”Ben’ yer min’ tae science" so I leart its trade.


It’s a job o wark, drivin half a hunner mile
T gas wi cheils aboot i price o gear, then
Sittin on i phone files, watchin i clowds flicht
Seein i girse pirl up i roon hull abeen i craft
An nae hearin a souch. 


Apryle’s breitherin: spirls oot o cauld clart,
Risin wreaths o snaw flooers, still fite,
An betimes the showdin yalla-lily.


Drift wis oor winter’s hansel.
The grun, happit aneth, stood chisel-teuch
An its smoor pooder wis yirdet thon-hicht
Till nae fitstap wid tak ‘s the length
O barnyaird nor bothy.

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

Road Will Wear You Down

The highway is bleeding
Your blood’s red music.

But the road is turning
Its blacktop into you.

Monday, 11 September 2017

Of the Art

[Meeting Minute 0609]

Is this our art,
Crossed conversations,
Connection, a fluid thing,
A tenuous shifting?