Monday, January 23, 2006

Another Day nearer Death

as my mother used to say. Ah, give me that west Highland Angst.


Stone wings of land
roll into a belly of sky
beyond eye-shot. They are pinned
by trees today, orange as old fire.

The wind coils Lydia's hair,
a little fleck of yellow paint
just a smudge, a thumbnail
such as you might spot

in curling photographs,
or muddy in a mind's eye.
It's tragic enough,
nailing moments like butterflies.

I sit on the hillside
and furiously blacken pages,
as if trees don't wither, hair won't fade,
nothing ages.

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