Tuesday, 13 October 2015


The sun rose to its height  
In a midsummer sky. 
I  wired up my walking boots, 
Stout brave shoes 
Which laughed at stubble, 
And splashed through iron brown streams 
In their stride. 
I took up my can  
Of thick, strong, red brown tay, 
Sweet , 
With white sugar, not brown 
And a dash of milk. 
Together we would step once more 
Across the dams of my youth, 
Slosh through fresh, mountain streams, 
Creep warily around bovine bottoms 
Caked in excrement, 
And walk the stubble filled fields 
Empty now of hay, 
And my people. 
Generations of shirt sleeved spirits 
Leaning on their rakes and forks 
Sweating in the sunshine 
Would rejoice in the sight of me, 
With the tay. 
erhaps for the last time, 
I'll sit amongst the memories 
And sip my lukewarm brew, 
Communing with my dead, 
reparing myself 
For that  hollow moment 
When clay meets wood. 
When all I will have 
Are memories 
And sweet red tay.

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