Throu-come

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 learned its trade.

Yokit

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. 

Breitherin

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

Drift

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.

Road Will Wear You Down

The highway is bleeding
Your blood’s red music.

But the road is turning
Its blacktop into you.

Of the Art

[Meeting Minute 0609]

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