for Jan Carson

If you ignore an ant colony

for long enough

you don’t think to ask

how they grew so small.


The grass sounds

differently here.


All those songs my mother learnt.

I love you.


A fire burns tall on the hill

from the hill a boy falls high

the grass watches burning

a ma digs up the hill trying

to find her wee boy burning.


I wake from a dream where

I ignored a street, muraled

and needful. My face all

tattooed with red-pen griffonage.


All fathers are fathers until the smell

of sealed rubber makes them weep.


There are so many poems from

here. Each one an attempt

at benediction.


May you turn the page of thon book

before it’s too late: the evening away.