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  • To Dad

    To Dad

     

    Come over, we’ll memory-mine,

    catch the match, share plans

    on researching our bloodline 

     

    and forget the vagaries of the mind;

    the failures, blanks, lost moments.

    Come over, we’ll memory-mine

     

    like we did with Gran in seventy-nine

    strange stories, we didn’t quite believe

    for researching our bloodline.

     

    So often lives were intertwined

    with romance, laughter, greed.

    Come over, we’ll memory-mine

     

    and catch where John Hogan declined

    the truth and made it hard to give talks

    on researching our bloodline. 

     

    A dram of Auchentoshan will help  

    remember the taste of home. So, 

    come over. We’ll memory-mine, 

    catch the match, research bloodline.

     

    27.1.22

    ©  Craig Muir 2022

    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

     



  • @60

    @60

     

    The first complaint is from the arch to the big toe, a dull 

    mumble that awakens calf muscles not yet ready to rise. 

    The lower back is next; a right jab, then a left, but bladder 

    is insistent, “Move, move, move!” Together they roll sideways, 

    wobble upright (knee clicking) and stumble, stagger across 

    the floor. Piss flows; lungs croak a reminder that a spray 

    will ease asthma later. For the moment the tourettes tic

    tiredness monitor rests. And the eyes can’t read any of this.

     

    Yet, at this age it’s not too bad. Developed more for comfort 

    than 5k splits, we can stride across the miles, or labour

    in solid bursts of energy. We can laugh, gameplay, throw out ideas

    that look to the future, compete with quick quizzers, wrestle

    a wordle, and wonder at the complexity of life. And still, her body

    snuggles into mine, curves shaped perfectly for one another. 

     

    21.1.22

     

    ©  Craig Muir 2022

    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

  • 1 2 1

    1 2 1 

     

    10.1.22 

    Well worn path, where each boot has left its mark in the mud.

    The weekend rain has gathered 

    and pilgrims are faced with slosh or squelch. 

     

    11.1.22 

    Damp, overcast, not yet dawn. The track that was thought 

    to be there is lost in time. Stalled trampers peer

    into the undergrowth looking for deviation or diversion. 

     

    12.1.22 

    A frosty welcome amplifies each distinct blade;

    creating crunch under every footstep.

    The dark clay remains preformed, unreformable. 

     

    ©  Craig Muir 2022

    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.