Doug Blair Poems

Call me a church mouse

Yep, generations of ‘em
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I could scarce believe my ears
As the Roman soldier said:
“You there, stranger, lift that cross,
Follow Jesus, good as dead.”
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He came to do his Father’s will,
This quiet man of Nazareth;
At thirty years he pondered still
The mission that would mean his death.
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Oh Santiago, back again

For days sore missed at sea
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I would see him at three thirty
On the street beneath my flat.
Kids would call him strange and dirty
Like a mouse plagued by stray cats.
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My slim bark, my slim bark

Glides smoothly cross the lake.
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I launch the kite at the first real burst of wind.
Colourful and dancing it decorates the sky.
Up and up to the realm of angels.
I seemingly with it. Flying.
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Sure an' 'tis a grand day

Me barrow full of goods
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We love it here
As the Sundays pass
With the smiles galore
With the rich stained glass
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I cannot beat the trails,
Or trim the wind-taut sails,
Or pitch a camp beside the dusty road.
I cannot tame the crowd,
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