Moon on the slates,
skitters its flichterin licht
throu the daurklin pends
an a fushionless win
souchs tae itsel in a dwam
that stirs nae sowel.
Nane but a traiking few
stot awa the sichtless oors
far fae the dowie glim
o bed or dream.
The last licht
on the causeys glisters
an a smaa rain comes
oot o naewye tae weet
the lang haik hame.
Till, files,
sowfin an hauf-cut
at the door-cheek
o some lockit entry,
dreamin o yestreen,
the ferlies o the toon
lie doon at last.
© BH, 2021
I started wi a poem ca’ed ‘Toon’ an syne it wis ower lang, ower bittie. So, I made it three -‘is poem an twa ithers - Foreneen and Efterneen.
I wis myndin on Aiberdeen as I screived it. Thon wis a lang file back.
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