Look deep within these loosely-woven layers to find
primeval land with ocean, sky and wind entwined,
skilled hands and eyes of generations gone before
and peat smoke mingling with a sea mist on the shore.
In old and intricate design you may well sense
a solitary piper skirling a lament,
or view the purple heather blowing on the hill,
or hear soft-spoken memories echoing still.
Some bold and joyful as a vibrant summer’s day,
and others tinted as an autumn bride’s bouquet,
some speak of wilderness and yet untrodden ways,
some melancholic strangers to the sun’s sweet rays.
With insight woven and a clarity of mind,
the rhythmic textures of the land we see defined.
With colours of the seasons, each piece of cloth unique,
of planet Earth and nature’s harmony does speak.
Revered now far beyond its island home,
a homespun cloth of gold it has become.
Ambassadors for Scotland, yes indeed,
that’s whisky, Robert Burns and Harris Tweed.
Categories:
skirling, god,
Form: Rhyme
I have no more time left, for fleeing Sadness!
I have no time left for it, yet it comes…
‘Twas easy, once, to dive into war’s madness,
To hear brave pipes, and the beating of the drums…
I’ll not forget you this time, my Bright Darling!
We’ve loved a hundred times, now, and before,
A thousand times, seen the copper leaves go skirling,
And more times yet, opened and closed the door.
And now, I close the lid, and draw the blanket,
Consigning your sweet form to heavenly fires…
The door’s closed now, and fire is your anklet
For Heaven is not subject to our desires.
And so, my Love, although I go to war,
I’ll ne’er forget you, nor did I, before.
Categories:
skirling, death, farewell, grief, loss,
Form: Sonnet
I was a torpedo, skimming the surface
of the green summer sea; I was a mountain,
touching the clouds at the summit, where
Frozen ice-pools lay. I was a crumpet, soaking
the butter of chat and cream tea. I was a musical
note, a skirling pipe, causing a dance in Firelight. I
Was a lover, loving in a plush hotel room, every day.
I was a massage, muscles bending, relaxing, in sweet
scented room. I was a cinema goer; drinking the flicks
With Milan, De Niro and Munro. I was a free man, away
from work, and bosses and targets too. I was a beach,
with white sand and too much drink. And, like the
Torpedo; I was a poem I wrote; which skimmed the
surface and made me feel free.
15/4/2015
Written for the Vacation contest 15/04/2015
Categories:
skirling, angst, best friend, happiness,
Form: Free verse
I.
The gales of Hell, they gust my soul;
I shutter up in vain--
Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain,
Shuddering as wind-tides roll.
Rattling rhythms wrack my soul.
The wind-voice screeches out my name
With banshee-clarity and tone
Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone
Lover who slew herself in shame—
Wind-wraith woman howls my name!
II.
The winds wax silent, shorn of sound,
A pall afflicts the land,
Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand
There my cerements are found
Rotting on the charnel ground.
Categories:
skirling, angst
Form: Verse
I.
The gales of Hell, they gust my soul;
I shutter up in vain--
Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain,
Shuddering as wind-tides roll.
Rattling rhythms wrack my soul.
The wind-voice screeches out my name
With banshee-clarity and tone
Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone
Lover who slew herself in shame—
Wind-wraith woman howls my name!
II.
The winds wax silent, shorn of sound,
A pall afflicts the land,
Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand
There my cerements are found
Rotting on the charnel ground.
Categories:
skirling,
Form: Verse