Nothing much happens . . .

A malediction, a disavowal, an admission. I have no heft to shoulder the weight you cannot bear, your father who called you ugly, your mother who does of cancer, the husband you foreswear.

Words, written on water. While bringing earth to throw on fire for a possible future

Scottish Gallery of Modern Art in the light of Vincent, in the light of Piet, in the light of Cy

In the lea of the hazels the hare skirted the open ground, vanishing to re-emerge under the wheels of the car. The maw of the middle distance.

Far from the cold northern light, far from the western fringes of empire, the warm sun feeds me

The weight of a human soul, flightless in an era of dust

Abandoned victorian garden, Glengarry Castle, Scotland

'Gunclub Road, Kippen', Oil on board, 60cm x 60cm, (c) Greag Mac a' tSaoir 2017

Glóthach fhroig, gaineamhchloch, an uisce gan torann / frogspawn, sandstone, the noiseless water

fuinneoga salach, an solus a cuireadh suas go dlúth / dirty windows, light made solid

An speir san uisce, na crainn suas é, an ghairdin sios an uisce, chuma na smugairle róin ar na duilleoga bháite / the sky in the water, the trees upon it, the garden beneath, the water lilies masquerading as jellyfish

VERY FRIENDLY

Feach ard sa speir. Ta na realtai ag cur fola anocht / Look at the sky. The stars are bleeding tonight

Fuair me blas fhola sa ghairdin / I tasted blood in the garden

Sa ghairdin, tá séideadh fola ar leathshúil liom, an chuid eile foircthe le fiail / In the garden, one of my eyes is bloodshot, the other overgrown with weeds.

Níl beatha ata ann ach ar na h-imeallacha / There is no life save what is at the margins