Peter Strugnell Poems
Comments about Peter Strugnell
The Russell Burn
Oh the cold air of the Kishorn burial ground,
and the ghost's there everywhere you turn,
the cold and the damp seems to follow you down,
to the brackish waters of the Russell Burn.
The Burn, the blood, and the porcelain shard,
an aching mitt and another lesson to learn,
I numb the hand and the ghost of the churchyard,
in the brackish waters of the Russell Burn.
There's a heart as cold as the Wester Ross,
there are ties that bind like a highland fern,
there's a sullied figurine nailed to a cross,
and the brackish waters of the Russell ...
he spends each night in my head doing the filing,
he's a conscientious man, he wants things neat and on the dot,
there's been vandalism, damage and the work's been piling,
at times he can't find the file and it's slot.
he is forever searching for it's proper place,
and he keeps me awake at night,
he's working at a furious pace,
but on my life he has made a blight.