Tag: poems
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Stitches on the Wind: In Celebration of Dolly Parton (1946 to 2026)
A quiet thread drifting through Smoky Mountain mist. A mother’s quick hands, scraps of cloth, a warmth that lingers long after the music fades into air. I hear that song and time just dissolves;a little coat of rags floating upstream, carrying all of us back to a love so bright it leaves tears in the…
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The Last Engine in Caithness
The map remembers when the town was louder,when cranes cut a new skyline and houses multiplied.Children’s shoes lined paths to schools that stilled later,and the sea kept the same slow argument with the shore. They came for the work and stayed for the short bright years,for trades that taught hands new languages, for shops that…
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The Sun’s Wee Smoke Break
The sun nipped aff for a fag, an left the moon tae mind the shop.Pure cheek, but that’s management for ye. Folk spilled oot their doors like it was the Second Coming, staring up at the sky as if it had finally decided tae dae something useful. For a wee moment, the daylight went full…
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Number 10 of the… North?
Andy Burnham is our prime minister. Third time was, indeed, the charm for the ruthlessly ambitious career politician who has been treated as the king across the water for some time. That’s not a criticism. Ambition is important, but I don’t quite understand some of the people buying into his contrived persona of a happy-go-lucky…
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The Endless Months
The morning arrived without a bell or an alarm,just the sun cutting through the curtains,and the sudden, heavy realisationthat tomorrow belonged to you, too. Weeks stretched out like a foreign continent,uncharted, unhurried,with no destination greater than the end of the laneor the cool, dark space beneath the old tree. Time lost its sharp edges.It became…
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August Holds Its Breath
By August, the hills have settledinto their deep greens and purples,heather thickening across the slopeslike a slow‑gathering bruise.The air holds a warm hush,not heat exactly,just a softness that makes you pauseon the path a little longer. The mornings carry a cool warning,a hint that the year is just about startingto think about turning.Light still stretches…
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Routine
The text alerts come first,then the aerial footage of the parking lot,red and blue lights washing over the stucco wallswhile parents wait behind the yellow tape. On the television, the spokesmen take their placesto recite the standard liturgy.They call it an unspeakable tragedy,an isolated act of evil,a storm that no one could have predicted. They…
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The Thread
A single thread has started to unwindAlong the cuff of an old woolen sleeve.A quiet looseness of a simple kind,That leaves no heavy heart behind to grieve. It pulls apart so slowly, stitch by stitch,A gentle letting go of what was tight.No longer holding to a complex pitch,Just softly coming undone in the light.
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The Keirful Goodbye
With Reeves wiping tears from her eyes,Sir Keir said his final goodbyes.He walked out the door,To a clap from the floor,Beneath the Westminster skies.