Morag McCarron


1. Italy

Mairi, it’s summer.
The oleander has sweetened the air
leaves for heaven
Geraniums rest from budding
their blood reds
their snow whites
Roses are lying copious in lairs
the lion sun has sunk victorious
Daisies of unknown colours
twist their dark purples inwards
whilst yellows burn on

that deep jade sky
has purged the eyes of all who see
and those who don’t
quietly feel it.

I don’t know where the dead go
but there is no escaping that journey
and then light, eternal, beyond.

2. Scotland

Mairi, it’s summer.
Fuchsias finger Heaven
the matrix of their colour, their hue
The wilderness where thistles grow
spills over into lake, into goose, into swan
whose whites of stars are sorely tempted
by the depth of a rose
its name, its family and species
Hawthorn bramble and the bracken of raspberries
haunt the wind
hoping to last forever

but that chill in the membrane
in that light over Pentlands
in the celtic spine
is a truth that outlives us all

And down by St Margaret’s Loch
the dead are hungry
and come flocking home to feed.

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