Update on some published poems

Shell Villanelle (in Markings 19)

The hard ridged edge, the smooth inner shell,
we search the beach for your limpet rings.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.

We gather until our pockets swell
'Just collect limpets, no other things.'
The hard ridged edge, the smooth inner shell.

Patterns of brown, ridged lines on the shell,
some with the colours of young gulls wings.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.

Once your eye is in, 'There's more!' you yell.
Our search continues as the curlew sings.
The hard ridged edge, the smooth inner shell.

Your pockets are bulging, mine are as well
as we make our way to the landings.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.

We empty our pockets of those magic shells,
gaze at the colours and patterns on the rings.
The hard ridged edges, the smooth inner shell.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.


Salt Marsh Defined ( in 'Singing over the Bones')

They call it merse, salt marsh, inks
where there's a boardwalk and a stone
marking the two Margarets death.
That black sulphorous layer
they call merse, salt marsh, inks.

A feeding ground for Greenland's geese;
land for grazing Galloway cattle;
where granite marks the deaths
of one eighteeen, one sixty three,
they call it merse, salt marsh, inks.

Margarets Wilson and Mclaughlin
Eleventh May 1685.
Now we hear the cries of birds,
shiver in cold sun, remember them
by the merse, salt marsh, inks.


Fishing for Poets (Published as 'Heron' in Markings No 27)

Hunched in peat brown water,
ragged with piercing eyes,
you remind me of a teacher
who years ago, gifted me love of poetry.
Fine grey hair, slicked down,
slate-blue tweed jacket
topped long grey flannelled legs.
Head, twisting on a scrawny neck,
fought restrictions of stiff collar and tie,
while sharp eyes sought out
wrigglers and dreamers.
Fastening their attention,
he captured hearts with words
and fished for imagination.


Evening on Monreith Beach ( in 'Southlight' No. 8)

Oystercatchers in evening dress
dance with their reflections
on mirrored sand.

Necklets of foam decorate
the beach, tossed into
glistening amoeba shapes.

The wrinkled sand folds
itself around the boulders,
drapes the headland.

Fishermen stand motionless,
half submerged,
living Gormley figures.

I walk on remembering
other evenings, shared.


Where Do You Go When I Lose You?
A poem for two voices (in Fankle No. 3)

Where do you go when I lose you?
You're here, yet not with me.
Here, yet not here
My mind travels over years, miles.

What are you thinking?
I don't know what you're thinking.
My thoughts twist my mind
Wring out sense, distort, confuse.
I should know what you're thinking.
I'm shut out, can't get through.
Some thoughts you can't know
I don't know where they're going.
Do you know what you're doing?
Where we're going?
My thoughts drift on.
Where am I going?

I'm losing you.

Bordering On Insanity (in Fankle No.6)

The files are listed
the photos are there.
Can I access them?
Oh yes, but where?

I try again.
This computer's new
I'm going insane
there's no help from you.

'You can do it', you say
but I hate I.T.
You make it look easy
but it's hell for me!