It’s late

It’s late. And I’m tired

(what did I expect?)

I spent the week collecting

sick children.

Not one or two but

three additions to the infirmary.


It’s late. And I’m jaded

(what did I expect?)

I spent the evening brooding

about Suilven.

Not three or six but

nine months of injury.



Shattered glass, smashed on ice, veiled splinters in the winter hinterland

The distant bark heralds the stark blue start, to another brittle day.

Forgotten roads, strewn with gritted teeth, limbs bowed with their burden

The candyfloss canopies are mirrored in the crisp, sugar-framed watery tomb.


Proud and unwilling, following the crowd, stagnant blades threaten the horizon.

The cold shoulder rises between two figures sat like crows, telegraph poles apart

Blinded by the waning furnace, deceived by the memory of warmth.

The premature darkness displays its faltering gems.


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