Poems

Pneuma

I watch the pink-bronze of a maple
rise and fall on the wind
rise and fall like a diaphragm.
Branches fan like bronchioles.

A whole day’s plans
abandoned.
Sometimes the world
has too many voices.
An ache as familiar
as a favourite necklace.

Wind drops.
The maple stills.
A soft outbreath.

First published in Northwords Now.

Giving up the day job

I love the way he paused
halfway up Makar’s Court
to take a photo

Of Nan Shepherd’s quote:
Its a grand thing
to get leave to live.’

I love the way he jettisoned
the snakeskin of his suit,
let me roll a rotary cutter

through his pale blue shirts
and co-ordinated ties
to make triangles for bunting.

I strung it between
our two old cherry trees
at his sixtieth.

Poem first published in Magma

October, River Almond walkway

Those high-res days waiting for cells
in a petri dish to react to dye
a child-like loss of control spins me

into deeper relish for the familiar
gauze-grey sky, suck of walking boots
on waterlogged paths, white water,
blackened sandstone of Fair-a-far Mill

when
soars
a kingfisher
dives

Such blue and gold.
Such a small event
ripples air, flesh.

It’ll all be well:
ruined things,
mud, smirr,
clusters of cells.

First published in Envoi

Poem first published in Gutter.