what the thunder said

I am pigmented by

I, who am weightless

Rinnin in watter

I see masel fae in aneth,
in a swite or in a dwam,
rinnin in watter.

Abeen, the clowds hap themsels
an whisper; in dags they weave roon
coupit trees that spik only the claik o wid.

Directions

Blown

solitary confinement

long days in a walled garden
the sun leaves behind its shadows
and the wind begins to warm
unexpected and so soon

then there is mystery

then there is the mystery
of upward-falling rain
how eyes become prisms
bending tomorrow’s light

Avenue

Was it sun in the pine trees,
or cypress branches feathered
under snow? or, in the frost,
hemlock needles remembering
lemon-scented spring-time?

Droplet

Falling, in the bleak rain,
this uncertain weather,
under a barometer of sky
where altitude pressures air
where clouds in turmoil
twist fog around the sun,
an arc as fluid as time’s days,
time’s years as rounded
as the planet’s shoulder,
the empty horizon a shrug,
disquiet and disinterest
hunched beneath it.

this morning

this morning
I saw the sun filtered through trees
in the hour before its light touched
the white walls of my house

watercolour

sky is water

cold inside me
shivering speech
nature’s idioms
chill and muttering
in my blood

For the Journeyman

The road’s black business runs thick with the hoarseness of tyres,
with the rattle of high-sided vehicles, the lull of household names,
storage, haulage, shopping malls, cheap components, chain-store
halls, white goods, car parts, sofas, beds, special moments, turn out
the light, sleep-well-my-darling, just one more night’s breakneck
hurtling through this two-lane highways’ sun-set drawn-out dusk.

JFMAMJJASOND

January cold taxes the purse.
February remembers love for a time
While winter deals its worst.
March gives us reason
For changing the season
As wind blows through like a curse.

A9

Clear sky and snow on the farthest hills
lose themselves as cloud and mist
trouble the summits.

Roads Untravelled

You did not go;
there is no turning,
only a forest track
where trees bend in secret.

You turned your weary back, accepted
the curious defeat of steps retraced,
accepted having other destinations
where light throws deeper shadows.

The Wind as it Blew

the wind as it blew was an ill wind
the near hills no longer gentle
rode hard against the sky

the sea as it ran in cross-currents
was a rip-tide off Bhatasgeir
drowning those who stayed

‘Ah, Dhòmhnaill, when will another son of yours be lost
parted from Aird Thunga and the flat rocks above the shore?’

Yellow Light

Drab sunsets with rain drawn through;
cold cloud in the west thickening the air;
opaque and tobacco-hazed, reluctant light.

Yellow flowers of field and heath:
buttercup, dandelion, tormentil, asphodel;
leaves, falling and fallen, birch and alder;
sedge grass at this year’s end.

Wind Song

Should yellow
Be the colour
Of the hills
And the trees’
Leaves shaking,
Their fear of falling…

…or their slender grip
On limb or branch,
Their brittle stems:
Time’s brown strand
Grown weaker?

Instrumental

Sun rising
Gone in a morning
Noon’s short-shadow light

Mid-day waning

Whispers in the afternoon

Till twilight comes