Category: Short Pieces

Tartan Tarts

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Tartan Tarts

I asked her what was the tartan she wore,
She smiled and told me Smith.
I’d never considered that Clan before,
But fair enough – the Smiths of yore,
The Sassenachs of Aviemore,
The flints in the monolith –
The common Clan for the ev’ryman,
The hammers and tongs of myth.

She asked the tartan in which I deck,
Buchanan, perhaps, or Brodie, or Beck ?
I smiled, and told her Burberry Check.

Read by Athelstan

It seems that the Gaelic word for smith is the origin of the Clan McGowan, but that even before surnames arose in the Highlands, some Scots had Anglisised their profession to ‘smith’.

Orogeny

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Photo by Gianluca Grisenti on Pexels.com

Orogeny

You told me how you loved me,
As deep as the magma beneath our very feet –
Erupting, flowing, building, forever,
Melting the stoniest heart with its heat.
You told me how you loved me
As tall as the Andes, and ev’ry bit as tough –
I thought we were raising mountains together,
But in the end, it was nothing but a bluff.

Fowl

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The Flying Chicken by ARTCELO

Fowl

Chickens can fly, if they want to,
Turkeys too,
Though they rarely do.
Peacocks can manage the haul,
Tails and all,
When they need to shoo.
So don’t let anyone tell you
That they’re grounded – he hasn’t a clue.
They may be lazy, yes,
And yet these flightless always flew.

Forget-Full

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Forget-Full

There’s some things I’ve forgotten
That I know that I’ve forgotten –
That I notice where the hole is,
Where the synapses are rotten.
Yet there’s other things, I swear,
I never knew, were never there –
But they clearly weren’t important
As they fall into the air.

Nest

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Photo by Evelyn Chong on Pexels.com

Nest

Home is where the twigs are,
Where the scraps are woven into walls –
From muddy flops to treetop digs,
The nesting instinct calls.

Home is where the eggs are
Where the young are building into birds –
Until it’s time to stretch the legs
And join the roaming herds.

When Saturday Came

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When Saturday Came

It’s always one-nil, for or against,
In my memory,
Always four-four-two.
Grandad would take me, shine or rain,
In my memory,
Were we the red or the blue ?
Half-time pies and always singing,
Stripey scarves across the board,
And Grandad smiling, regardless of winning
In my memory,
Espec’ly when anyone scored !

Batteries

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Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Batteries

The old railway tunnel is gated now,
The trains haven’t run for years.
The bells never chime in the minster tower,
The saints needn’t cover their ears.
The caves are abandoned by hominids,
And the pillboxes carry no guns.
Besides from tramps and adventurous kids,
Then the bats are the only ones.

Scurry

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Photo by EVG Kowalievska on Pexels.com

Scurry

Quick, down here !
Over there !
Are they near ?
They’re ev’rywhere !
You take one way,
I’ll go this –
Meet you Monday,
Hit-or-miss.
Best not dally,
Shake your feet –
Up the alley,
’Cross the street –
Don’t stop now !
Pick up the pace –
I’ll see you, somehow,
Usual place.

Roofkeepers

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Paisley Abbey Gargoyle 10 taken by User:Colin, showing the work of sculptor David Lindsay, itself inspired by the work of Hans Giger.

Roofkeepers

The gargoyles are guarding the peregrines’ nests,
In their makeshift high-rise habitats.
They gurgles-down the gutters near their new houseguests,
As they keep the drainpipes clean, and they trap the thieving rats.
They shelter the chicks when the North wind blows,
Inbetween the buttresses the parapets.
They lure-in the pigeons, they ward-off the crows,
And they scare-back the devils with their gruesome silhouettes.