Thirty Six

The sea devours four houses*

A cliff-top gale to you and me
A wee-breeze for the locals
A somewhat sideways view
Along the coastline to Hoy

Fearful for oneself
Fearful also for others
For the sea devours those with troubles
The cliffs provide launching pads for escape

Defeat in that suicidal moment
Unable to change ones mind
No longer to hear the songs of angels
No longer to cast eyes on universes beauty

Fearful, of what thoughts the rose might raise
Fearful, of pasts once thought well buried
For the mind devours those with troubles
The soul provides launching pads for escape


* George Mackay Brown - Scara Brae

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Thirty Five

Ask the old one to make a clay lamp*

Hard clay; crushed, milled to dust
Calcified, into even finer dust
Conveyed, or blown on its way
Mixed, mixed with water
Extruded, over a dye
Sliced, sliced into pipes
Each one a man's height in length
Rolled continuously as they dried
Stood tall, kiln fired
Unloaded by man
Tarred and sleeved by man
Stacked on pallets by man
Lifted by fork-lift truck
Transported by articulated lorry
Unloaded once more by men
Laid into trenches by men
Clay for a future generation
Clay for internet communication cables


* George Mackay Brown - Skara Brae

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Thirty Four

Three posts
For the washing lines
Three posts, three washing lines
Three directions
For the washing to blow
Three orientations
For the sun to shine

Four pivots
For the feet to stand on
Four points, four connections to the ground
For certainty to be established
For feet and body to be supported
Four combinations
For the balance to be confirmed

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Thirty Three

I want to talk about spines
and vertebrae
Because I am learning about
spines and vertebrae

I want to talk about clouds
and skies, and hills
Because I am looking at
clouds, and skies, and hills

I want to arch round
to the spine
Because I am learning how to
arch round to the spine

I want to drift, as clouds drift
over hills, across skies
Because, as I drift, the clouds and skies
drift with me, drift for me

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Thirty Two

I must remember that horizon
I ought to turn my head
The full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees

We walk around the pond
We sit on the bench to talk
I return to my room, to proofread

The horizon, from this new viewpoint
Is not so strong, a darker sea
Muffles the colours concentrations

A fainter line; a cloud line
With that uncertainty of purpose
Certainly not the edge of the world

I must remember this line of hills
Where the land and skyline turn
As the water of life flows from loch to sea

We walked along minor roads
Then ventured out onto cart tracks
Drawn by the pull of the shoreline

Our house was on the hill
Though which house, on which hill
Would we ever wish to return to

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