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

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

@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

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

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

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