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Och Aye


I thank you all, my dear Scots
For those years passed away back in Stirling
May your pipes remain forever a-skirling
Down here mid my scented forget-me-nots



It’s fine to see here on this warm October day
The orange of maize heads drying on that roof
Reflecting in the marigolds below
To sit among the rocks and read
Watching butterflies hover in the sun
But missing is the smell of new mown grass
That scents the air of far off England’s summer

November Dawn In Northwood


Nature’s fan turns
Fingers sing
Where winter has dramatised the trees.
Beside the drive
Dropped leaves are cupped with frost.

In six o’clock light
Dawn comes.
Thin songs are jerky, interrupted
By chattering
Of birds’ beaks amid ruffled sleepy feathers.

The milkman’s step.
Gravel crunches up the drive.
The house
Suspended above is quiet.
The holly is still as the wind drops.

The bang of glass bottles
Against the step.
The faint sigh as the float slips into life.
And disappears …

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