As Sharp The Thistle Be

 

 

     The call came in earnest -

the handset snatched from dust laden

   marriage,

      ‘I want your presence,’

   and so the bike was pulled and oiled.

 

     The shire of Aberdeen gave

grand of canyon company,

   and before the hills my breath

     stolen and given back with interest,

        all green and bright post mortem of winter blues.

 

     I couldn’t pedal fast enough

for I know this psychology of paradoxic

   intent;-

     for the pace and haste,-

       the visions of green hills and heather

           would be a fleeting memory if upon

               a snail I ride.

 

   First days of Spring,

First days of Spring,

        ‘First days of Spring upon Bonnie Scotland soil and,

                                 the year is new again!’

 

  I am, neither treason or trespass,

     but, curling locks aside, only

         the same as brethren kind in

            grabbing the dew – brined and moss,

               tree of life and moist she be,

                   the bed of heather all treasure

                        where gold bric or, brac, becomes unsure.

 

    ‘Infidel’ they charge,

  but knowing the kings and queens

       in exile upon a city where people

          weep the woe of wishing horizons,

              ‘my smile post modern Scotland,

                    be weeping for the waste of real peoples

                          of Manchester, Liverpool, Newcastle and beyond.’

 

 

Michael J Waite 28th February 2025. (with Shona, Rothiemay)