Dreaming of the way her hills of green surround me, how her waters flow, that flower on Mum’s brooch.
That bonnie lass kissed me, and I was in love until I backed off and left her standing still, crying like an angel.
A bloody git with no love to give; I sit on park benches wishing for a bit of ‘The Guard’ treatment once a week.
The lassies don’t love an old cock, so I use face paint on me face to enhance my features, but it don’t help.
To think I feel ancient at 30! Not even Belle and Sebastian can save me ass, as she’s getting married today.
I swore I’d pop over, stand up like Elton John wanted to, and say I love you babe and I wanna kiss the bride, yeah!
Her vagina is for him now, so I can’t be taking a vagina that’s been freely given in the pleasures of consensual coitus.
I’m shite at love, yet there’s always hope in the valleys and the Loches that are 21st-century ladies and lassies.
Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a sheep shagger; I just didn’t know love when it bit me or hit me between the eyes.
Speaking of the devil, there’s a lassie coming my way. Could it be her? No. Yet she’s like strawberries and cream; I might have a tub.
Lips of rose, powdered ivory cheeks,
dark long hair moving as she moved,
eyes of violet ice, mitten coal hands.
She was a flower in full bloom dancing
for freedom on the lake that snowy day.
I was only a young, foolish boy, watching
the way she moved, captivated, knowing.
Lips of rose turned white, ivory cheeks froze,
dark long hair became still, her eyes closed,
the mittens no longer danced in the snow.
I fled from her stillness, forever running from
that beautiful face I never stopped to love.
Obscured by darkness
Revealed by moonlight
Beauty amongst roses
Ugliness in those eyes
Purring for a night kiss
Lips cold as winter ice
You wake up in terror as a toilet brush dances around you. For some reason you think the torch beside your bed is a gun and that you can kill it; you cannot kill a plastic brush.
Baffled about your predicament, you decide to pull the covers over your head. You can still hear the bristles, and the handle is knocking against your bed frame.
Unsure what to do, you throw the covers off, jump off the bed, and hide in the corner.
The toilet brush gathers momentum, lunges at your face and you scream profanities as you wonder why the toilet brush is tangerine.
In the distance, you hear, “Anna, Anna, wake up!”
Disoriented and sleepy, you say, “Huh, what the! I was having a- huh?”
You partner looks down at you worried, “You had a bad dream-“
“What is that on the Telly!?”
“Anna, don’t worry. It’s only Donald Trump.”
Through tired sobs you say, “I dreamt he was a toilet brush…”
The moon’s outline in the sky
tells my body it’s too early for another day.
Trees once danced in numbers,
now sparse; replaced by houses, people.
The wind whistles down from the hills,
moving through my nightie, blowin’ my hair.
Forgotten clouds appear shyly,
creeping closer to the moon, hiding her outline.
The darkness and the light interweave
leaving strange shapes and shadows at dawn.
Whispers from the shadows and the wind
call me back to something known, yet unknown.
I retreat inside, knowing well I should have listened.
Moving in the wind,
the full fabric moves
in this ancient place.
Burning heat sears all,
as the sun burns down
upon this arid land.
Colours of the Earth,
different burnt colours
not shades to dispute.
No European delicacies
need remain here,
for the sun burns it all.
Singing moves on the wind,
an ancient song forbidden,
to pay tribute to this land.
A small finger points
to the sky, as
they lift off the ground.
The meadow, distant now;
Hearts pound hard, fast.
Fear mixed with awe.
The small one shows
them the flowers, meadow,
the horizon, beautiful light.
A small finger gently releases
them from the spell of levitation,
as they smile, kiss, hug,
and drink a toast to the special one.
We sit together for tea
with cups, saucers and
the old willow teapot.
The afternoon sun moves
closer to the end
as the chatter moves on.
Wishing wells and time
come to mind for
many unknown reasons.
The teapot empties
staying that way for a while;
we continue appearances.
A sound from the teapot;
no, this must be a mistake.
The teapot becomes a shell
and, the music of the sea plays.
No one else seems to notice
the teapot, playing songs.
She’s calling me to her side;
I decide to visit the sea
and ask her for her hand.
Quiet dimly lit highways;
country roads overlook cows, sheep, powerlines.
Over the hills, an ocean of blue;
cold seawater foaming, spraying the shore.
Quitting the house, taking a midnight journey
through our memories;
we drive along those roads free as two birds.
No thoughts of lockdown, or a killer virus;
just wishfully thinking that we could live forever.