Ba Laigh O

Boy, roll the dark and roll the stars

Inna a drum to sound out far

Bring ’em pouring white and charred

Them painted bodies under the stars

Ba laigh o you bend the beats

An’ break the floor down underneath

As I watch the flashin’ of your feet

Ba laigh o down underneath

Boy, jump the sea an’ raise your gun

Thunder voice to drum and drum

Throw bass bullets on your run

An’ inna yell the sea be stunned Continue reading “Ba Laigh O”

Parallel Outlet: 7

“The low divides we dare not cross,

all that we’ve loved, all that we’ve lost…”

So begins the poem Divides by Eric M. Vogt, a piece that I return to read now and then. In short and seamless lines any manner of things loved and lost are conjured up for the reader, and although it is Valentine’s Day, loss has long been a poetic side to love.

There are surely as many beautiful poems of loss as there are of love, and the stories that compel us almost never contain love alone. Those stories contain uncertainty, regret, transience, and the irrevocable loss itself, where sadness serves as a tribute and brings us to question endings.

What is an ending? Fatigue, alienation, death?

“Love is a many splendoured thing”, and the ending of loves throughout history has been a great mover of men, cities, and countries. Divides brought all this and more to mind. And it ends with a tantalizing reference to memory, the only place where things that have ended may survive.

The Sylvan Historian

There are not the sounds within the forest that there used to be.

Though the Historian can conjure up all that was – the poplar children, shy yet bold, the ageing men within the oaks, the rowan women who pretended indifference – this is but one symptom of a mind mired in the past.

And what the Historian conjures, like the lightest of veils, drifts away whenever the wind sweeps past without the slightest mutter of leaves or the scurrying of small things. Continue reading “The Sylvan Historian”


With the tail end of twilight, descent by chance

Down into my valley, I notice your steps

You a traveler footsore with your hem in the dust

 Seeking safe rest, in grass dry or lush

At the base of the slope, under the apple tree

You lay down your pack and drop to your knees

And from within my marsh I dart and I drift

In watching you, stranger, with keen interest

The first to pass through in a seeming age

A bell on your belt, and your cloak an array

Of patches and colours that speak of far places

Of roads well-worn and of roads that wait Continue reading “Will-o’-the-wisp”