twa fittit beass

endless rows of two-footed beasts
rising and falling, slipping in and out of
being
with steel slung over shoulders,
with hatred chiseled into hearts

endless rows of half-sleeping gods
in dreams of food and drink, and bloodlust
with steel hewing through hearts
and hatred packed and stacked high
on their shoulders and backs

with arms outstretched to both lovers and foes,
marching toward a vast dark No

row upon row upon
row

sept 30

it's damp, this last day of
September, the water's all sodden
the ground;
it's puddling, places,
with the rain of the morning's pour-down

beyond the leafy bouquets
of sundry quiet hues
(quiet but the brilliant bursts
of orange) the sky is all
filled up with sooty tufts
of wool and summer's cotton

the wind, it makes the
leaves all dance, at
its will it bends their branches

and this grey midday, born
of blackest skies, will slip
back into the blackness of night
just like a man going passed-out
without any resistance, without even a fight

and why should it, then?
the cool air's pleasing enough,
playing on the skin

broken earth

a heap o fresh yird,
                      earth

new broke and turnt,                                                           
the quiet
of the steid
          place                                       
belyin'                                                                   


if not
for that, i could have trewed
                               believed                       
(forby the leafy souch an sighin)
besides                     sough                                            
it was just birds and banes;
                                         bones                     
                         
                                          
and of course a thrawn thrang
                      stubborn     crowd
of  grey stanes,  
            stones                                      
this little auld   
             old                                         
place populatin.

an aiblins (div ye maybe think)
    perhaps      do                                                
the orra shade hidin - waitin?                                                         
      odd

it's ages been since onyane's wrate
                             anyone's     written                        
upon my story's pages
a new word or name,
it's sae lang the same 
     so   long                                                        
i thought folk'd all stinted dyin'                                                        
                            stopped

an i ferly to see how there's still any room
      marvel       
for any poor body to big up a tomb                              
                               build                              
an the grass, lang uncuttit,  
                          uncut                                                                
the wrought iron, all rustit,
the yett that won't sneck   
      gate                 latch                           
an the stanes, cracked an bustit -

fy!                                                                                                
all used up is this grund - it's no ay  
                         ground          not  still
fit for yirdin;   
         burying                                           
still, perhaps e'en tonight
we'll raise up a dirdum
                       commotion                                                               

and kindle a bonfire of bones

atop an old slab of gravestone       
and when it gets bleezin,
                         blazing                              
an the smoke spews up, heezin
                                     lifting up                     
we'll groan a doleful dirlin death-moan
                              resounding        

'mang eerie hoolets,
(a)'mong          owls                                                    
we'll dance and we'll birl
                              spin                                                           
we'll raise us some hell, aye
we'll skraik an we'll skirl
        shriek                holler                                          
an all through the cauld nighten air
                          cold                                  
of this ill-loved and auld deaden lair
we'll yelloch an skelloch and whirl a death-twirl
        yell             scream

round and round our bonfire o banes
                                           
an make us fast friends
OF ANY PUIR BODIES
              poor      persons                    
THAT SHOULD BE WALKIN
HAME BY THEIR LANES  
home                      selves

lammas bread

we baked some bread for lammas
an irish milk stout laif,
                          loaf
made from whole wheat flour
crushed between twa stanes
                         two  stones

filled the house with
fall's first breath
heating in the hearth,
first rowthy fruits of harvest,
     abundant
warmed, and baked into a loaf

we cut some off and froze the rest
and drank with it some stout,
washed it down with braw black beer,
                               excellent
the blood of john barleycorn, blest;

the hero john barleycorn's blood drank we,
that hero john barleycorn's bluid
                                        blood
the hero john barleycorn's blood drink we:
that hero john barleycorn's deid;
                                        dead

he winna lat us gang aglee,
    won't      let        go       astray
for he loues us and we loues he
         loves
the hero john barleycorn's bluid we'll pree;
                                                       taste

john barleycorn must dee!
                                die

john barleycorn must die, must die;

john barleycorn maun dee!
                        must