I scaled the heights, and let me

confess now of their beauty;

razor-sharp rock, heather coarse,

blown fibres from a rainy north.

Sitting on the edge of these

steps, in a vigorous breeze,

the land falls away, time’s plaything,

whilst eons fade on the wind’s wing.

Valleys, cities, factories, spires

of churches, through a foggy mire;

questions floating through my head,

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I didn’t know what it was like

in the sea, I only imagined

cold, depth, darkness;

a sliver of the unknown;

‘The Inchcape Rock’ – Peter Graham,

1908, that which stayed

pinned to my father’s wall;

a navy blanket slung careless, crumpled.

And strange to think

at sunrise, the mist would seem

to cover, then to clear, and wave

for the gulls to pass on through,

wh...

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Frozen, they placed heavy footprints

on hard-packed foliage, etched ice;

the withered bark stretched around

in slanting lines, near-collapsing.

Moving these weights, one step, two;

these notions in a February mist;

regrets like the broken skies above,

where clouds drift dark with mingled smoke

from fires marking from whence they came.

But no scars give away their cr...

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Once, upon, a time…

Is that how it went?

And did it follow that

they said

those allotted words, those

mined from the red hot

pits of thought,

shaped and resized;

tamed, wearily eyed?

And there, in a large,

gloomy house:

our hero, spending days

pacing halls too big for

the right adjectives to name.

They sit, press their

flickering hands together

...

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I stepped slow, drunkenly down

a half-shadowed rough road at noon;

no more than a sliver of dust,

a dirt track, borders pale in ruin.

No labour it was, but pleasant,

above a sky of summer blue;

yet autumn’s grasp it lay upon

the boughs, branches; a breezy tune.

And in a glade of silver hue,

of spider webs and thrushes’ nests;

beyond, there boomed in stereo,

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I find, always, when looking out

of your window, I can see

what has come, has gone and what

is yet to be.

Rain, sun, and rain, perhaps merely

a seasonal thing;

a tempest of sorts before the tide

unclasps its cling

on a battered shoreline.

Beyond the sea,

behind the smeared glass

a new dawn tempts me

to rouse you from your sleep;

whispering sounds like fr...

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