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.

Friday, January 06, 2006

Hippy New Year

Long silence from Drumsleet. It's not my fault: any free time after work is spent looking after weans (specially She who Never Sleeps) or drinking as much as possible. Sometimes a wee lyric is scribbled down on a beer mat and finds its way into print. All in all it's been the time of festive season you'd describe to people as "quiet" meaning we didn't got to any parties, didn't visit anyone, in fact kept ourselves to ourselves in the log cabin in the hills, right in front of the fire. Lydia (She who Does Sleep) was delighted by all things Christmassy. Jasmine (She who Does Not Sleep) was similarly happy night or day. Suppose it's what you really want: lovely house in the country, snow at the right time, Hibs doing well in the League, good supply of 12 year old Malt.