Blizzards

In a Blizzard Near Closeburn


The land pole-axed under a buttered sky,
road signs peppered white,
only the bones of trees black,
and the dykes like consonants
pointing to a dim rind of hills.
Over there, a kraal of cottages
with battened down babies
and dogs smoldering in front of fires.
Over there, the faint orange morse
of a car signaling the end to this week’s
technology. Shin deep in it,
I stretch out my arms to feel the punch
of winter. The age old thrill,
and fear, of meeting the Boss.

Al is Dead

Dark news from Drumsleet indeed. Funeral this morning for Black Al, window-cleaner, hill-walker and general raconteur, a man of vast talent and unrealised potential. The Tam O' Shanter pub has been taking on the aspect of a charnel house over the last year if the truth be told, Willie McNinch, Ian Dunbar, John Barr and now Al. Went to the hospice on Friday to see him and he tried to get on the bus with me to go back to the pub, tracheotomy and all. When I left him he was sitting with his head in his hands. Next day he was dead. I should have let him come, shouldn't I? Only the most lethal of diseases would dare to separate Al from the craik.

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