This poem was published in Northwords Now some time ago.)
It can take most of your life to see
the large car park at the end of the line. There are no instructions on arrival. You circulate widdershins and search
the large car park at the end of the line
for a space that suits your personality. You circulate widdershins and search a familiar face in the day-glow crowds
for a space that suits your personality.
Some of them are smiling and holding a familiar face in the day-glow crowds. How many coffee beans in the jar?
Some of them are smiling and holding
hands. It’s important to guess how many coffee beans in the jar. Green sunglasses are optional, reflective
hands. It’s important to guess
how many miles to Land’s End? Green sunglasses are optional, reflective blisters on the soles of your feet.
How many miles to Land’s End?
You might travel naked and grateful for blisters on the soles of your feet. It can take most of your life to see.
NB:- John O’Groats is a popular tourist destination in the UK. It is located on the north coast of Scotland and is wrongly believed by some people to be mainland Britain’s most northerly point.
Photo by the author
There was fire over water that night
we met, sparks aplenty. You were more
elegant than expected, curvaceous steel
with a hint of rebellion. Your body
enclosed me like a rocket on our way
to a mysterious planet. My heartbeat
quickened as I fondled the unfamiliar
instruments swathed in your green light.
Together we claimed space, unstoppable.
We shot across the Tyne Bridge without
looking back, headed north, crossing
borders and north – north – anticipating
the friction of car wheels on gravel
roads. There were torn rainbows, strings
of pearls, demons hiding in hedgerows,
lightning bolts and blinding spider mist.
There were herring seas, twisted forests,
and languid nights of Summer Isles. Lost
in the clouds we met only talking cats.
Fairy lights beckoned from peat bogs;
temptation lurking in each red window.
We were Bonny and Clyde, a foxy
duo kicking up shit in the badlands until
we broke with a whimper not a bang.
I feel the cold without you and I doubt
the presence of soul. Scars fade in sun;
nothing remains but moss, rust and bone.
Original photo by the author
so good to see you
smoke-eyed stranger in the night
with blood on your teeth
when you spark that talk
sly fruit bloom on sullen trees
starlings fall like snow
I remember you
burning sweet Ballachulish
heather by the loch
in a hotel room
shadowed by the Three Sisters
and scented orange
we hoped our extinct
volcano might come to life
in that flash of light
Photo by the author
I hesitate over the Hollyhock seeds,
a gift from an unwelcome visitor,
plucked from her coastal garden.
She wished to cultivate friendship
but this is not a land for expectations.
Some days there is too much sky
and the earth shrinks in subservience.
The northerlies and easterlies razor
high hopes to humble proportions.
I prepare soil sheltered by fencing
and umbrella bamboo, fronds scorched
by storm. I shake the Hollyhock seeds
into my palm. Alien, irregular. I sprinkle
and mark the spot with a scallop shell.
Three years on, September, I return
from hospital having almost missed
first bloom; bold and sizzling
cerise in a land that favours the small.
Artwork by the author
Painting my dreams – New Art from the Far North:-
The Edge. Watercolour on paper. Original art from the Far North. Painting for sale. Enquiries welcome.
Scottish landscape. Watercolour painting by the author. For sale to the discerning.
This original watercolour painting is for sale. Please email me if you are interested in making it yours.
My lover brought me a lobster
fresh from The Pentland Firth.
My lover wove the creel, steered the boat,
laid the trap, hauled the rope,
boiled the catch.
The lobster was beautiful,
pink naked in newspaper.
My lover said, the best is in the tail.
I tore the claws and knuckles, butter sticky,
sucking, licking, probing, splitting,
searching soft white meat.
shell broken, belly filled with seawater
I dreamed of the ocean floor
and my lover waiting.
Photo of Dunbeath harbour by the author
Frosted mountain wings
ripple across horizons.
Silver winter clings.
Image created by the author