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,
Monday, December 8, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: blood,ghosts,love and loss,passion,past,reading,scotland,spoken word