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Poems

  • Ice Wind

    Ice wind

     

    hits brutally, whipping rumour around the Beacon;

    across the eastern plain, grey cloud smothers debate.

     

    Blessed are you who weep now,

        for you will laugh.

     

    Collar up, scarfs tight, thermal beanie pulled hard down,

    glancing East and South; caught between two ill-winds.

     

    Woe to you who are mocking now,

        for you will mourn and weep.

     

    On the borders, white noise whispers chilled warnings;

    to the north, numb blue lips discuss choked silence. 

     

    12.2.22

     

    ©  Craig Muir 2022

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

  • Predator

    Predator

     

    I wait. Body still, eyes scanning

    timber shaped onto meadow

    across long shadows. Watching.

     

    Behind, bare trees merge in

    to ochre, caramel, cinnamon.

    I wait. Body still, eyes scanning

     

    until, with a flick, a lift, a sweeping

    of long limbs; I shift down the line

    across long shadows. Watching

     

    the way neighbours gather to begin

    a fresh survey of the butchers’ ground.

    I wait. Body still, eyes scanning

     

    beyond sunlight steadily rising

    as amber, saffron, yarrow beams

    across long shadows. Watching.

     

    From the field beyond, a lonely figure

    emerges oblivious to another presence.

    I wait. Body still, eyes scanning

    across long shadows. Watching.



    2.2.22

     

    ©  Craig Muir 2022

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

  • 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.