Bill Wright

The old man looked up, glasses on head
Sitting in his own chair, by the fireplace.
Aye, I know what you want to do, he said
As he went to the table, and cleared a space.
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Christmas is a happy time,
With family, presents and food,
Goodwill we wish to all men,
And toasting the common good.
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Indo-China, a land of contrasts,
Of beauty and the beast,
Conflict after conflict,
And mankind at its worst.
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I'll always remember
Our walks up the Braes
A regular feature
Of all those Sundays
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I am blue and shining. Three dimensional.
I reflect everything you see.
My view depends on where you stand
Accurate, distorted - the choice is yours.
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Clang

Clang, clang, clang
The rivets sang,
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The last train rumbles out
The smell of soot fills the air
Midnight strikes.
Late night revellers stagger home
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Wow, I recall Varanasi.
The spectacle, a kaleidoscope of colour
A cacophony of noise. Crowds milling
Devotedly. Mother Ganges in full flow.
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Yes, I love Edinburgh
The smells, the sights, the sounds
The Festival, autumnal August
Wonderful. The crowds up on the Mound
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Today is International Museum Day,
A website has just told me,
And I think of all those wondrous places,
Around the world to see.
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This ruddy referendum, really made me mad,
Petty politicians, false facts, libels and lies,
Trying to win over the voters' trust,
And cut the other side down to size.
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Caw, caw, caw,
That's all you hear,
Living by the sea,
Caw, caw, caw,
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The morning sun shimmers,
Gently over the mudflats,
Reflecting on the little boats' hulls.
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Or should that be
'Hi, Summer'?
The sun shines down at last
Over the flat, millpond sea.
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Boats sitting calmly,
Just off the shore,
Gently,
Bobbing, bobbing, bobbing.
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The blood red orb,
Sinks slowly in the distance,
On the edge of the horizon.
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I bounce around the meadow,
Not a single care in the world,
I hop along from tree to tree,
As I cover lots of ground.
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Scotland's people go to the polls
Fate in their own hands
Casting a vote, YES or NO
For the future of these fair lands.
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It's June! It can't be!
Not already. Where has the year gone?
I swear it gets shorter every year.
"Ne'er cast a cloot, ‘til May be out",
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