I still think of you
when I hear a song that moves me
And wonder what it would follow
on the tape I wish I could make you.
This is the standing stone
on an emotional landscape
that has changed as fast as technology,
seen music shift from soulfood
to occasional backdrop
and solitary teenage bedrooms morph
to joyful family homes (thank God).

I wouldn't go back -
but here's a song, unexpected, blissful
which can't quite touch me as it should
Because I can't press 'record',
watch the reels go round
and imagine you listening
when the tape crosses the country
and fetches up at your front door.

No more padded envelopes
nor blotted biro liner notes;
no more declarations hidden in plain sight
in ninety minutes of love
I knew no other way to send.

Folk with the real Scots,
guttural and glorious,
know me for the cushion-mouthed patsy I am

I can no more ape
that lyrical brilliance
than I can do a Grappeli on the fiddle
or tickle the keys Theloniously

And when I see
a lounge-room spaniel
howling feebly at the moon
frustrated wolf-blood
squirting through its scrawny veins

I know
exactly
how it feels.

Another numbered summer, over
plans packed away
watches wound
boots back on pavements
lawns forgotten

And the sun apologises
as it rises too late
and the cackling wind
reclaims his domain with a flourish.

Have a good day, boys -
see you at teatime.

We'll try our best
but there is a point
after which all our efforts
to convince you that the world is good
people are kind
and that you have every right to be here
can't counteract the flood that blasts forth
from your wretched night-spun home.

And the hope we offered
seems cruel
as it disappears from view.

One last thought, vanishing child -
try not to take anyone else with you.

In each other's heads
We all of us plant seeds
Some burst into roses
And some to tangled weeds.

He lies on his back
creaky bed, darkened room
and wonders how he would be
if he had chosen differently.

Mind goes fractal
like Russian dolls
he thinks outwards
but really in

Oh imagine!
Nerves tingle -
what an original thinker he is:
There must be millions
of alternative mes
in unreachable universes
and untold dimensions!

Of course,
if he weren't too busy
contemplating his navel
all he'd have to do to find them
is knock on his neighbours' doors.

"They say it's the tallest in the country, you know,"
the older man smiles.
His companion's eyes follow the trunk,
smooth and sheer, to the clouds
in wonder.
The topmost branches sway
and he feels himself adrift
beneath a giant mast,
sails flapping on the wind
as feathered cirrus fly through the blue beyond.

Just then a carriage bursts through the forest
causing them to leap from the path.
A bilious face glares out from inside.
"Mind out the ****** way
"Or I'll have you clapped in irons!"
scream the spit-spattered lips,
chins a-wobble petulantly above a too-tight collar.

"Begging your pardon, your grace,"
says the older man, doffing his cap and bowing
as the carriage careers on.

The young man is speechless with fury.
"*******!" he screams.
"*******!"
But the old man is clutching his sides with mirth.

"How can you laugh?
"That fat pig nearly killed us!"
The boy's agitation is making him dance.
"Clapped in irons for looking at a tree?"

"No, no," chuckles the older, "for looking at his tree!
"The height that leads our eyes
"Up towards heaven
"casts a long shadow over his wallet
"And the weight which fills us with awe and joy
"presses on his shoulders every day!
"Ownership is a terrible thing, my lad!"

And they make their way home,
free,
through the forest,
their forest,
laughing.