Yon bonnie banks heal my hardened heart,
as wistful wonder brings me back to my home.
Having had traveled to places,
familiar faces serve to soothe my soul.
It takes its toll. This grand goal
really refreshes a world wide fool.
Spirits soar when the Highland hills call.
You worry about my comings and goings,
as if I am tied to someone else’s life.
But life is rife with opportunities
and the unities we have established
do not serve to anchor a heart when
feet continue to seek new ground.
My acquaintances know my nomadic ways,
and I spend days and weeks at a time
enjoying what’s mine when I find it!
(Mine AND the time!) So let me be,
and I’ll be. Just leave your message
at the beep. I’ll get back when I am!
The chill is gone from my weary bones,
I feel the therapeutic warmth of a summer’s sun
in this diminished preview spring offers.
The mist upon the loch rises ever slightly
as the brightly coloured hues hibernate
awaiting their blooming. Soon, the hills
will be awash with the beauty reborn.
And my worn and tattered heart starts to feel
the reel that the pipes provide and it can not hide
the thrill I find in Heather on the hill!
(And Heather doesn’t mind it either!)
Dyson Douglas and Iain Douglas,
brothers of different mothers; sisters
bearing together. Whether you can tell
or not, we’ve got a lot of commonality.
But the reality lies in our disticnt differences.
He is tall, I, verbose. His vacant stare, distant.
Mine closer to the vest, a chest full of white hair
matching the window treatments. He, a store-bought
couiffe (more handsome without). I bear the family nose,
he, our predisposition for the distilled beverage.
Ambition brings me closer to my dreams,
but it seems Iain dreams throughout. Not a lout
by any stretch of imaginings. Generous and caring,
I’m wearing the shirt off of his back. But, I have a knack
of romanticizing our connection. It’s for his protection.
Iain is ravaged; dementia his executioner. He remains
on this plane lost in someone else’s brain. His smile
takes the circuitous route to expression, brief as it is.
I am pained in the witness I must become, but feel
all the love for my brother, my comrade, my friend.
In the end, isn’t that what cousins are?
My nomadic existence takes me,
it literally makes me pick up
and move from time to time.
A well-worn traveler, an unraveller
of the fabric of my making.
An undertaking that take me
down under, a wonder in its own right.
A forth night from Melbourne,
an unborn yearning to make
my presence known.
North to south, hemispheres
exchanged and it is a strange feeling.
Stealing moments to enjoy this escape
until my longing heart starts
to pack and leaves for home.
We carried a vision jointly.
We wanted a cottage in the countryside.
We wanted children and a dog.
We wanted to travel to far off places,
we wanted our faces to meet with every fleeting moment.
We wanted to grow old together and
we wanted our matching rocking chairs side by side.
But inside, a different story emerged.
I wanted the freedom to write my weary heart.
She wanted independence to placate hers.
I wanted to purchase more of a footprint on this old sod.
She wanted to wait and see how we worked out.
I wanted her to be happy,
she wanted that too.
She wanted the cottage in the countryside.
She wanted the children and the dog.
She wanted to travel far away from our union,
She wanted my face to meet her barrister.
We wanted to grow old together but
she wanted to keep her youthful arse far from that rocking chair.
I wanted to work things out.
She wanted to divorce.
She received the cottage in the countryside.
She took custody of the children and the dog.
She bannished me to a place far from her,
she wanted my face to suffer in pain.
She got everything she wanted.
Anyone wishing to purchase twin rocking chairs?
in a flat notebook shape,
you take a licking
but keep on clicking
when I press your tabs.
Portable and functional,
on the road you are my pal,
my only means of community.
In unity with my mind and muse,
I can use you all day, for
I’ve a lot to say. Out of the corner
of my eye your warning flashes,
five percent power. I had better
find a receptacle in which to plug
before my cell is drai
250 kilometres from home,
enjoyimg the countryside
and the Summer breeze
along this much travelled road.
The auto cruises until it
loses the fuel to motor.
I ought to have gone earlier.
Next petrol 27 km.
The countryside is overrated.
The birth of me blessed this place,
but all traces of existence have vacated.
A noble home; a country cottage kept
amidst the hills and briars with room
to grow and learn. The stoop unswept
and remnants of window hangings clinging
steadfastly to the narrow rod, t’were hung.
Songs that mother had sung for father’s joy,
or to her infant boy, linger amongst the cobwebs.
In my possession, but no heart for disposition.
Dreams of restoration to her former glory
have long since vapourized as eyes mist
and a wisp of her spirit fills me.
Once a beauty as was mother, but now
the only remnant of her who gave life
to this sad and rampant storyteller.
This fellow knows all that filled this place
now fills my heart to overflowing,
always knowing mum’s house was home.