ON SEEING SORLEY MACLEAN AT GLASGOW UNIVERSITY
His words tread the polished wood,
stroke the soft Gaelic of my printed page.
Love poems in an old man’s mouth
resonate through these hollow halls,
for a woman long gone,
for a land weeping.
Place names thrum like waves,
pulling me back and back
to where I never dared.
From the islands to his hills,
I chase him, unable to catch up.
His head teacher’s furrows deepen,
his voice echoing beyond this room,
an ancient cry.
It rekindles an unsensed spirit,
sleeping in words,
a thick honey I cannot fathom.
Skittish
Curled long-limbed around me,
my daughter’s thoughts tangle in knots.
Little worries creep in,
muscles tensed to spring away.
At the crowd’s edge watching,
a flick of her tail,
waiting, hiding
her flickering interest.
She pats the moment
with a hesitant paw,
a small smile,
skirting the distance
until it’s almost too late
and the others
begin to disperse.
She clings to dangling threads
of the last moments,
treasures she chases home.
She purrs the rebuilt memories
to me in the darkness,
the games she played,
friends with no names.