In Memoriam

The gravestones in this place are wet with tears

Of children, wives and husbands who have stood

Beside dark holes that swallow up their fears

Replacing ice water where once flowed blood.

November skies are grey and hold no lights,

The flowers flattened in a winter gale

That whips away dark thoughts the widow fights

To keep hidden behind her mourning veil.

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A Wee Dram

The dancing flames lick gently at the grate,
a bottle splashes amber to the glass,
soft chimes reminding that the hour is late,
aromas drift of peat and harsh deer grass,
the smoky mist of morning, with each pass.
The glow of bonfires as I gently kiss,
letting the rich swelling flavours amass
and burn upon my lips, no thoughts but this –
“how can something so bitter bring suc...

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