Butterflies

Butterflies
 

 I know nothing of butterflies,
 but I envy
 their embroidered wings,
 the way they gather
 and ride the currents
 of forest and field.
 

 I remember, too,
 those museum trips.
 The dust cases 
 full of latin specimens,
 pinned to faded board,
 their colours crucified.
 

 They belong in green places,
 where they face the wind.
 Where we can watch,
 as they gently touch
 and rest with wings folded,
 like waiting sails.

Auld Pier

Auld Pier
 
 A stan an face the smirr
 that laces a northern wun,
 an listen tae the call
 o a gull as it hings
 abin the auld pier.
 
 Yince, a wid come doon here,
 an watch the fishing boats
 disgorge thir bluided crates
 o cod an crab an tope,
 thir takins fir the day.
 
 A’d listen tae the cries
 o gulls an fishermen,
 The jingle o tall masts,
 the cough o waitin trucks,
 the slap o wave and rope.
 
 The boats have gone lang since,
 thir catch no worth the chase.
 Auld ties hae broken doon,
 an the loch his emptied
 intae a changin sea.
 

Romania

A few years ago, I was lucky to be able to travel to Romania to help take some orphans to the Black Sea for a wee holiday. I made eight trips in total and, as you can imagine, went through every emotion imaginable. Recently, I came across a couple of poems that took me back…

Ioana

 Ioana feels the light,
 for the first time it seems,
 soft as a mothers’ smile,
 warm as a fathers’ touch.

 Ioana feels the waves,
 resists, then lets them
 take her to a new place.
 She floats, weightless.
 
 Ioana starts to dance,
 she moves by herself,
 her small body lets go,
 learning what music is.
 
 Ioana is dreaming,
 in the not so dark,
 in her dreaming halls,
 she is free.
Daniela Colours In
 
 Daniela can’t keep between the lines,
 her pages fill with any colour
 that take her fancy.
 For now, it is blue,                                                                                                                                  blue for the sea she dreamt off,
 blue for the calm 
 that flows around her now.
 
 She searches the box,
 chooses the red and blunts
 her crayon in no time,
 but there is no anger here,
 she coloured that in long ago.
 Red was just the brightest,
 red is in her blood.
 
 Green next, for the trees 
 and grass that replace
 the dust and concrete.
 She adds some yellow,
 yellow for the flower she saw
 and planted deep within,
 yellow that grows there still.
 
 She turns the page,
 there are no lines.
 She smooths the blank page,
 leaves it as it is.
 White is the colour of peace,
 white is for the clouds,
 that, one day, will be hers.