sheena blackhall

Rookie - 399 Points (18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)


Four men digging peats on the moor
Iain, Hamilton, Findlay, Neil
Cutting them neat with their flauchter spades
Pushing and lifting, hand and heel

Iain will die by a stranger’s car
(Oh how narrow the roads, and bent)
Under a sky of stars and rain
And a sickle moon in the firmament

Hamilton, he’ll have a living death
Dottled and rambling, thoughts awry
Pity the man of sense bereft
Like a grey scarecrow hung out to dry

Findlay, he’ll take a walk with drink
Down, down, down, into beggar’s lane
One more thing for the skip to shift
Dead in a night of snow and pain

Neil will die by a surgeon’s knife
Quick and easy he’ll quit his place
With three grown strapping sons behind
To fill his space in the human race

Submitted: Thursday, May 01, 2014

Topic of this poem: death

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