Poetry | Stories | Photography
Leaves of green etched into a black canvas,
white flowers mixed in for the forest spirit
and a sprinkling of snow upon the old trees.
If only those mythical flowers were real,
how they would frolic wickedly in the sun.
It’s over now, and the end passed me by;
never to feel Spring petals on my ice skin.
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.
C & K 