Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Port
Island waters: seas, lochs, streams, waterfalls
The poet’s father’s daughter plays the pipes and all
All to have a calling from the birth date to the wake
Words that stall, fall short of deep within
Rhythms of the oceans & of the seven deadly sins
Sunlight on the ferry
As for the boys in France
Back to making merry
Lead the nearly men a dance
Tall ships and seaborne warriors
Divers for the crab and clam
Hear the anthems of the Highlands
Fire the fear and then be damned
Dream of wide open moorland
Sleep on thoughts of mountain tan
Lay down old preoccupations
As you would in far away Japan
With the author who committed seppuku
After turning the pages on the love that ran
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