Slivers of time and earth shone rock
Announced the Cairngorms National Park
Like a mistral made of Odin’s Artic sized cloak
Cloud meets snow meets stone-
March training and Sensei Hazard at destination
Seeing Ben Macdui in its magical realm
Tracking the A9 road for base Ronin
Idiots in large or small cars
Nothing detracts from the huge whispers
Of the forests and mountains…
Ichi, ni, san..the hours pass
And training time.
Not long enough, not big enough
Poor of ink and real literary currency
The demands of the Independent Poems of the World
Were issued by the SUN
Supreme Undivided Necromancer of all text types
Still the words in it thirled and thrummed in heads
Words and images
They flew around Ben Lomond and drew strength
From the Great Glen and the cliff high flats in Dundee
And in the great City of Glasgow
The poem walked on and on
It gathered in the striated muscles of hearts and hearts
Till a kind of unstoppable music began…
The small car was a Fiat or maybe a SMART car. It lingered as if going backwards. The mass of cars this late teatime surged past it. I was in the third car to make a dash for the freedom of open space in this rat run home when I saw the jumble of pink, purples, brown hair and assorted limbs. There was a high row of lifeless but moving toys in the back of the small car. They made a small Roman amphitheatre of nylon and furry animals. Appearing on the driver’s side a large mop of curly dark hair could be seen.
Now the large call centre round about was coming up and the opening to the artificial football pitches was leaking cars into our way. I was connected by that glacial slow umbilical cord which connects cars in the seated semi-coma of traffic jams.
We both had to let some cars in from the parents taking kids back from the clubs at the football pitches. Blonde haired women in miserable face masks in demon eyed four by fours forced a way in. While the male counterpart sped into the line of metal like dye working itself into an intravenous drip.
Relief. A short line of one bus, one Volvo and a personalised number plated Audio.
The roundabout was about to free. I, waited with the clutch up and saw the giraffe and whales near the other side.
The alloy wheel like a chunk star was what I caught. The rest of the sporty Vauxhall Corsa smashed into the zoo.
And time slowed as the dumpy capsule rolled smashing and laying fragments all around the road till it finished roof down half on and off the roundabout. He had stopped dead-losing only the front left headlight. His adapted seat had him lower down like a ship on the horizon.
Turning left and getting right onto the wide grass verge I stuck the hazards on. The bus driver had ran back from the stop leaving passengers on and off the bus. I ran past some drivers angry they had been stopped from inching home.
There was only a hairline cut on the lady’s scalp. She spoke as she lay hanging.
‘Hold her head, son.’ The bus driver said.
‘Your hands son.’ She said.
The toys were everywhere as the sirens’ sound came from the town centre’s direction.
Memory feeds on the best and worst
Thankfully the acres of planning minutiae
From teaching do pass into Hadean come glacial
Slivers of *toom space-
On this day in Malawi I mind my African colleague
Asking ‘Why be afraid of rats in the roof?’
They *bide in *mony of their thatched roofs
Being a *feartie was easier to explain
than Assessment is fer Learning
Its ins and oots
‘No reason I suppose.’
I said putting my mind firmly with the red earth there
Not the sandstone or flint mix of the beach at Kirkcaldy.
*Toom=empty, bide=stay, mony=many, feartie=easily frightened,
Near as full as a human torso
This buzzard grips Fife in talons
So tightly on the rotten wood post
This metal box of a car is weak
Nonchalantly in preconscious mode
The marsh before him has gossamer
Spun and fairy wrought mist above it
There will be carrion to hunt later
On the edges of their roads and being
Yet in this time in
The constant wind and rain even
A favourite tree makes no recompense.
My English soccer team I support
is not at home
In the ‘Losers’ Changing Room’
We are on the Chelsea Stadium tour
And the Russian oligarch owner isn’t at home
It reflects a global world, ages since workers
Kicked round a leather ball in pre-Kaiser days
I wonder what else can be bought, can all
Be bought, all be given a value then spent.
*Picture of the Chelsea dugout in London; it was an excellent tour!
The synapses and whole body
Count in a rhythm which is unique
For it seems like you have never hit
Before like a novice in a glare
‘Strike like you are hitting hot metal’
And sometimes not
The real impact lies beyond
Outwith knuckles, fist or bone