Taking breath in the hazel wood, we listen
as one of the many forms of silence approaches.
This particular flavour spreads dark peace
like treacle – slow and sweet upon the tongue.
After a pause quietness opens a door, letting in
a silver tinkling of water hitting stone.
Another door is opened, and a heron rises,
slapping the air with improbable wings.
Nothing here is of our time. Walking back
we count each cleg and midgie bite,
the ticket price to this unruly Eden.
They itch like the future, rising through our skin.
Halkirk in the Rain
A walker wishes to avoid being drenched,
but the street’s so very wide, and a long
dreich walk to make it to the other side.
One drookit collie dog eyes a wet seagull.
It eyes him firmly back.
Here’s a butcher, three hairdressers, a little shop
selling almost everything but dryness.
Outside the hotel bar a solitary smoker stands,
braving the downpour. He wishes
for a more resilient armour.
Does the Devil walk upon the earth?
Today might test his mettle, prompt a dream
of resting ancient cloven hooves,
hot tea and buttered crumpet by his side.
Behind closed doors, heavy curtains hide
worlds that are strange yet strangely normal.
Inside each house life sparkles - Xbox,
jigsaws, whisky, soup and strummed guitars.
Inch by inch, along the rain-soaked street,
skirmishes are won, gainsaying floods,
revealing gentle paths towards a higher ground.
Little White Rose
Beautiful pink Highland morning,
you’ve got me worrying about death,
which is pointless at best,
death of course deciding when, not if.
Sketchy wee bit fluffy clouds,
it is Saturday, 18 October 2025.
All bets are off, but the village clock
will keep on ticking.
Deepest brown October sea,
the leaves of your book are rustling,
spinning tales that lead relentlessly
to widows, weeping on the shore.
Treacherous road out of the Straths,
you know we all are emigrants,
reading signals in the burning thatch,
transforming them to sweet and sour songs.
Little place I knew as first and best,
believing there was nowhere else,
the patterns in the heather
are the same for Kansas and for Timbuktu.
Beautiful pink Highland morning,
I’m dancing, dancing over sharpened swords.
The tune is haunting, and it just won’t stop,
even when the prizes are already won and lost.
Ian McDonough
Ian McDonough was born and brought up in Brora on the East Coast of Sutherland. His latest collection is ‘A Witch Among The Gooseberries’ published by Mariscat in 2014. His poems have recently appeared in Poetry Review, Causeway, Poetry Scotland and Northwords. When not writing he works as a mediator and conflict trainer.