Cemetery Stone

A jungle of empty white lines.
As my feet cling to the grey concrete, I find my eyes gazing
Towards the poppy field, the flowering lamppost, the sea of ashes.
Endless spray carnations, fixed to a point in time,
A place where each timeline ceased forevermore.
Shifting nervously, my feet find the path to the petal;
It’s is flowering with fresh grieving.
Wives and husbands,
Mothers and fathers,
Sisters and brothers,
Daughters and sons.
Eventually my steps lighten to find
The vast green expanse,
No bigger than his hospital room.
Crouching feels appropriate,
Speaking doesn’t.
No urge have I ever had to speak
Beyond the soil and stone in front of me,
Nor have I ever envisaged an omniscient presence
That can be reached like a takeaway deity.
Bearded ressurectionists or biblical optimists
Bare no sway in this way.
Sitting here feels like resolution,
For myself, for my father, for my mother, and my brother.


The bonnie Scotsman (at rest)

This is a difficult piece to post. I love him, and he will hear this.

On a day of toil, remember a bonnie soul, clutching to life, straining to survive, but now at peace, restful in his sleep.

The bonnie Scotsman wanders across his lands with the wind in his hair and haggis in his heart. Shame our Scotsman lacks the follicles to stand in a fresh wind and sweep the flowing locks from his eyes, except for that one time the cousins and I brylcreemed a mo hawk on that random strip that protruded from the egg shell.

The bonnie Scotsman bowls the greatest players off the green, luscious grass of the county parks, even though he never had the pleasure of pitting his skill against the Kerr duo. Even in the practise arena we went soft on him, honestly. I am sure he was inspired by the kitty; the chance for petty cash to buy the Scottish amenities: the shortbreads, the kilts and such.

The bonnie Scotsman is strong, in every thing; in every aspect, every minuscule detail and every fibre of his being. The wall was built to separate and divide, but this Scotsman scaled its broken rocks and wandered triumphantly to these, our shores, the land he calls home, with us, his loved ones.

The bonnie Scotsman is now a shell, a broken image of his former self. His aesthetic lies though. Underneath his fragile bones is a heart of fire and courage to fight. His days now stolen by torturous cells, but presently straining to taste another one, continuing to fight and scrap, for his precious life continues, with us, his loved ones.

The bonnie Scotsman is at peace, resting in the hearts of everyone who was lucky enough to have known him. Sleep well sir.