Author: thejerichoroads

Cioch Mhor

Six months on, they came

never would it be the same

but still they came

greater and stronger than before.

They did not file like Owen’s cattle

but stampeded past them and their shit

a fertile ground for all of it.

Working like ants, downwards

and onward to their baptism.

A short-lived blessing in these pressing times.

And now the burning season through the heather

the weather holding but brooding and befitting.

In ones and twos and more the procession reaches out

and reaches, a turning point.

Pants and grunts and curses, smiles and laughter

some walk, some stop and some canter

but for all the banter (as is befitting)

one voice is heard, by a tearful ear,

“Alex brought me here.”

 

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Beyond 365

There was a time I was alive

to the sound of the ring tone,

a time to rejoice and to thrive.

But the sound of yon phone

fills my bones with dread

always after 10

always calls of the dead.

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.

Recycling

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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For years

4 years. It wasn’t the first and wasn’t the last

still tears and the curse that cannot be passed.

New years bring fears of reprise, hope of reprieve

the grinding of gears and the struggle, to believe.

 

 

Still Christmas

No silent night, no sugar coating, or gloating

of a picture postcard experience, transcending

the realities of making do and mending.

 

Never mind fairy tales of then and here and now,

never mind the absence of sand or snow, still the cow

and sheep and the wayward herd needs tending.

 

Let not the cold and damp dampen our hearts,

let not the early starts dim our view, or darken our parts

in this season. It is still Christmas. Peace.

 

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The greatest thing I have ever done

The greatest thing I have ever done

was to shun

not the limelight, title or hand

given freely

but the sense of reverence expected

by the few

the expectation of deference due.

Passing through

I do not fear the passing years

any more than I fear the passing days

which is to say, I hide my tears

and fail to address my failing ways.