Poetry

When

When I think of that beach when I think of where the planes landed when I was a Barra boy when I think of the generation before the planes when I ran, a little girl with braids flying down the strand from my Ma to my Da

Ashamed at what I need

Roy always welcomes when I arrive (again) bathed in Saturday manure, mud and sweat, knowing already each inch of a cabin filled with the essential—the wood stove, the spring pump, the bookcase proud with well-used ancient texts/ the covered porch where he rests to watch the world approach.

Reading Together

Out the window, hoarfrost beards the mountain; inside, Buck stove flames ripple, dog snores, brandy flares in throat. Snug in twin armchairs, we dwell in two worlds: your Vikings pillage, slaughter; my plucky English detective scours the village, building her case.