a sister
is no good as a wife
and once again
Eric proves himself
not a practical man

there is only one horizon left
and too many last lines
he is running out of steam
there is a stir of premonition
in his morning tea

he reads last week’s newspaper
births and deaths
a baby named Winston Smith
he wonders how many
Adolfs there are in Berlin

the motorbike
is now a pushbike
and the hens are running for the cliffs
visitors are frequent
but do not stay long

storms brew
as Eric drinks
his afternoon cup of tea
the fist of cloud
over Islay
is a photograph

his fingers tap
a bad habit
he turns his finger into a gun
the future
is a rabbit
pursued by hounds



3 thoughts on “STORMS

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