CHRONICLES OF LOVE
Moving through the sculpture forest;
method walking –
Sunday –
best foot forward.
It's come to this:
mopping time with little towels,
these are dark and dry stains
trickling over their tomorrows.
Compressed,
like cartoon foes,
they've come up to a page with nothing there,
blank speech bubbles closing round.
Once they mixed within each other's skin,
soaking up the world and time together.
Now each step, each thought,
is guarded by the drawbridge of their eyes.
Lids that cannot see the shafts of light
softly kissing treetops,
or the shimmering of leaves beyond;
or the message of the bisons, live and sculpted:
all the art that once was etched
is still laid down –
in chronicles of love,
and in these hollow eyes behind the trees.
John Easton
EIRD HOOSE
Inno the yird's intimmers,
A neukit roadie wynin doon an roon
Like Orpheus micht hae wannert
Efter tint Eurydice. A road as blaik as cinners.
Licht dwines tae a preen-prick heid.
The tunnel bores farrer inno the pitmirk crack
That's the wame o the yird.
Centuries crummle awa like shakks o seed.
I like tae coorie doon in this tint airt
Ooto the blatterin win, hid frae the cauld sooch o Yule.
Wi'ts cranreuch claas.
The auld eird-hoose is theekit wi girse an breem.
Its guffs are fooshtie, mochie wauchts o mould.
A blaik chaumer. A derk thocht.
I coorie doon in the derk, in its velvet faulds
Like a tod, ooto the warld's mineer
My twa een shinin...
Auncient shaddas steer.
Sheena Blackhall
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