In these mortgaged rooms
I hang my photographs;
the ends of journeys taken
to be out of here.
I rifle books, films, music
from my sofa,
e-communicate from my computer
and my phone.
My photos and my feet in harmony
tell my appetite it’s time
for smoke and beer.
When I come back home
I want an arm around me,
embraces brushing
terra firma from my shoulders.
Please apply,
and if we’re happy in the morning
I promise that we’ll take
each other’s photos
and be out of here.
a solitary wellington boot size five
stuck lonesome
in the mud
and I suppose
with some mixed feelings
I was glad to leave it there
because
I didn't fancy venturing back
into that alluring pond
the cows don't mind
I expect the cows are big enough
to haul their hefty hooves
out of the goo
and not think twice about it
but as for me
I had to walk back home
with half a pair of wellingtons
and one extremely muddy sock
to face the music
and ever since
I suppose
my wellington records precipitation
when it rains or snows
like some abandoned rain gauge
in a flooded weather station
Sure-footed on the interface of change
towering over Merkland Wood
and the sun-trap sandstone of Brodick castle
Fuji-like on the Arran horizon
Meall Brec, Goat Fell
threatens an eruption of volcanic magnitude
but for now the sunshine burns the esplanade
shimmers gnat-like over the swarming sea
burning get up and go into holiday flesh
but sapping the muscle of adventure
erasing thoughts of expedition to the golden-eagled peak
where any way
bruised colours prepare to proclaim
their impending storm’s release
|
