Winter Colour

We wobble through the woods, conceal crayons

in the nooks of old trees or in bushes

so that Andrew can amble there, find one,

and exaggerate joy when he gets them.

His bedroom’s full of thousands of crayons

(so we inch them out into these wood-walks)

creating a constant new colour;

like blue, black or green, maybe yellow

and we reckon we’re conning the rascal

with a weaving of colours in the country

but I know that he clocks every action,

peeking sideways, pretending they’re new.

Why would he support such reprocessing?

Why? Returning fine splurges - delight.

From a Train

the green-blue mosaic

at North Queensferry station,

car parks, allotments.

Training

Multiple bodies sitting on a crowded train,

becoming aware, feel Andrew stand

and wobble for thirty minutes;

unwilling to give-up their little seats.

Outside, the sun is cool,

(you might expect cold in winter):

look down, stare ahead, or sleep;

‘we don’t need any connection, eyes hint at a danger’.

Angry, I stand by him

on a raging mind-trip - disconnection, society, media! -

while he rocks and smiles, decides to blow kisses

at reflections in windows, ghosts

and pale echoes of something and nothing.

Then he blows a few more - to the sky.

Morning

Darkness cloaks new shadow

until a burgeoning light

turns pastel into ‘Hello’

and birds uplift in flight.

Andrew's Advice

“When fingers tingle, there’s a chance

that two little legs get up and dance

a tango, quickstep, tap away

and wiggle to YMCA.

“‘Cos when I skip, expressing me,

a little spark enflames, gets free,

and dreamers reach an extra mile;

stand more vertical – and smile.

“Cynical’s an easy stance

(static) – no, come on - and dance.

“Two legs, one leg, arms out, balance

on your day – a happenstance.

“Wear a hat - or silly pants

- let it out - Exuberance!”

Child

One day I drew

a picture of myself

- childlike and true -

and put a big circle

round the wee boy

I had craftily created:

a boundary, an area

so mum and dad can’t enter

because they want to change me

from stick man into fat boy

or make me much more handsome

by rubbing out (or hangman).

I used an HB pencil;

it’s a fine line.

Morning

In this half-light, the light is changing slow

- another day of feeling minor fear;

time is up, and so it’s time to go

seeking, finding little things to know

and feel, confabulate, perhaps to hear;

in this half light, the light is changing slow.

Forever probing language, me and you,

so I can be not me - if I could dare;

time is up and now it’s time to go.

I’ll spout my words but who can tell me how

meaning climbs a spiral or a stair?

In this half light, the light is changing slow.

One day, there will be nothing left to do

except to take another breath of air

when time is up and getting time to go.

Humility’s a constant – God I know -

the need to bend a knee is lurking near.

In this half-light, the light is changing slow.

Time is up and so it’s time to go.