Dreich day
Wet rain falling
Wet icy rain falling
Cooling my face
Cooling my body

Robin soaked
Blackbird happy
Blue **** flitting
Sparrows committing

Dreich day
Endless grey

My organs need aligning      
To my mind's meandering tract.
Irrespective if she loved me,
I should have loved her back.  

August 1st 1994

What do you want from me? I am not just,
As you desire; I am not whole or part
Of your antiquity. I know I must
Deplete my ore of you; I must depart,
If only to withstand the judgment call
That I should sober mine my soul. I dig
But find my land possesses naught but pall
Shrouds, wrecked by empty casks and crowded brigs.
‘Tis only with the passing time and flight:
When I long to belong, when I am blind
With *****, stupefied and brain-dead bright,
That Scotland, you invade my winding mind.
The question haunts as dreich as my desire.
My constant drunken dream will ne’er expire.

Where do we go from here? What is to come
Of me within you, in you, here and now?
The solitary plight in one man’s sum
Of rhyme and reason creases on my brow.
I, sweat in winter outcast by the self,
Must sit. I crouch and crawl from bed to bowl.
This box is stutter stained by glass, the serf
My conscience specified, to catch the soul’s
Transfusion red to street. It drips and slides,
It split my very sides when sadness swept
So close. Dear Scotland, will I ever hide
The condemnation, nailing my inept
Existence? Will I ever find the time?
Dear Scotland please prepare my earthbound lime.

It did, and I did, one after the first.
And now the long time that I walk upon
Has thrown itself, is gone. The wayside burst.
Yet blind, I still conceived my setting sun.
Lone looped black celluloid, I circled, fed
Upon the axle of my own demise,
So many times in dry feet, airborne led
(To a) dishevelled Scotland, spread for absent eyes.
Undressed: acceptant in the throes of musk,
The tear comes shuddering. The chasm wails;
The dales of concrete weep from dawn till dusk.
Yet my visage of sickened eyelets fails.
If Scotland is to eye, my wounded knee:
Then tomb my head in Boston, let it be.
Because,
You loved me with a broken quill clutched tight
Into your hand. My blind eyes reacted to
The sound of greyness in your voice. A flight
And fancy ploy: the essence of a truth.
As memories of eggshelled sojourns waltzed
To Spain and back my tip-skin touched the soul
Of spirit taste, on foot, which cracked beneath
Another sole. My role had shifted poles.
Yet then, in linened white and Boston bright
Disdain, I worshiped, nay, I bled the thought
Of rain on cobbled Ahston Lane. To fight
The want was useless. Now, to the fight, I float.
A ghost in life, I crawled the clouds for miles,
To shake my Scotland’s hand and reconcile.






Barry Miller-Cole 2011

She sat on her bed
looking out the window.

Hannah looked at
the fulling rain.

Her mother passed by
the bedroom door
and looked in.

Whit ur ye daein'?
Her mother said.

Looking at the rain,
Hannah replied.

Ye can help me
wi' the washin',
her mother said.

Do I have to help
with the washing?

Her mother stared
at her
Whit ur ye
waitin' fur?

I'm waiting
for Benedict,
Hannah said,
gazing at her
mother's stern gaze.

O heem th'
sassenach loon,
her mother said
and walked off
down the passage.

Hannah waited.

She'd was pushing
her manners close
to the limits.

Once upon a time
her mother would
have slapped her
behind for talking so,
but now at 12 years
old her mother dithered
and set her tongue
to work instead.

She eyed the rain
running down the glass.

She could hear
her mother in the kitchen
banging pots and pans.

Then a knock at the door.

Benedict no doubt.

Gie th' duir, Hannah,
her mother bellowed.

Hannah went to the door
and let Benedict in.

He was wet, his hair
clung to his head
and his clothes were damp.

Got caught
in the downpour,
he said,
shaking his head.

Hannah smiled.

I'll get you a towel
to dry your hair,
she said.

She got him a towel
from the cupboard
and he began
to rub his hair.

We can't go out in this,
Hannah said,
have to stay here
and we can play games.

He rubbed his hair dry,
took off his wet coat
and stood by her bed.

What games?
he said.

Ludo? Chess?
Draughts? She suggested.  

Her mother came back
to the door of the bedroom.

Ye swatch dreich,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict.

He looked at Mrs Scot
and then at Hannah.

Mum said you look drenched,
Hannah said.

O right, yes, I am,
he replied and smiled.

Mrs Scot didn't
smile back.

Dornt sit oan
th' scratcher,
Mrs Scot said icily.

Mum said don't sit
on the bed,
Hannah said.

Mrs Scot went
off muttering.

Where shall I sit?
He asked.

We'll sit on the floor,
Hannah said,
and play chess.

He nodded his head,
his quiff of hair
in a damp mess.

The night we first slept together was election night,
the reds against the blues against the yellows against the greens.
We both picked the same colour, I found out,
sipping coffee, scolding tongues at that place on the corner
where you can chuck in some scran while you’re at it.

Here’s a cliché, but true: one thing led to another.
A DiCaprio movie I barely recall, a dreich day
umbrella-sharing as we charged back down Arthur’s Seat.
I wondered if Hibs won, you thought if my hand in your hand
meant we were comfortable, easing ourselves into each other
as if trying on a new pair of boots.

There was ***, but that’s personal.
It was at your place. The sleep.
After it was over, our throats aching with lust, you went
to the bathroom in your pricy Primark knickers,
spine ablaze with light, and I revelled in the deliciousness
of your not-quite-**** body, knew we’d started something,
knocked the first domino down.

In the morning, we’d reached an impasse.
The TV blared out no surprises.
My eyes discovered an unfamiliar ceiling,
you wore an iron-soon shirt, white, nothing else
as the coffee machine spluttered its language.
A one-night thing? I thought so, eyes punctuated
with crooked red hyphens. I didn’t know my toothbrush
would be there in months, my face again in the mirror.