The Scaum o Sky an Sowl, by Jilly O'Brien

The Scaum o Sky an Sowl

It’s been twathree weeks in dulling douth

three weeks stuck in stane; steel shot

sewn intae pockets; damp ashes

dumped on jaickets. Ankle weights.

Twathree weeks o rubbed-oot charcoal

sketches smudged on aching thumbs;

removal o sea fret traces,

trudges tae the mail box. That’s all.

May is bit a fool swick. May sells

hecht o jessamine flouers

upturned towards the licht, tells us

‘Unfurl your leaves, limbs, ither things’.

I hing a picture on the wall.

It’s a loch scene; clear water

shimmers emerant green in blazing heat;

chuckie- stanes meet the waves; and I,

I wunner why you stayed. I find you

brushing sorrow aff oor shooders;

worrying at stitches until

a holie appears, skailin cauld.

by Jilly O'Brien