Grandfather

I only caught the final episode.

Only really paying attention half way through,

I loved it; was desperate when it stopped

And often, now, wonder how the plot had

Developed before I tuned in, how its

Twists and turns had meandered broadly,

How faithful those final moments really were

Compared to the whole. I can never know;

But I cling to what I’d seen, a child missing part of himself.

Queensferry

It’s exactly the right colour. It’s strange how a mud

Red works so well on the scale of titans and giants.

Placed against the blossoming monochrome flood

Of a Scotch June sky it hums softy to itself whilst

Wild shouts of wind encircle it, meaning no good,

Remembering with relish how it had laid low

A predecessor; but not here, where the mud

Red stalks are planted surely, reaching deep.