To A Snowdrop

A flash of white, a hint of green,
Where barren earth before had been.
You quietly steal upon the scene,
Demure and coy
A springtime herald, gladly seen
You bring us joy.

You drift below the naked trees,
You softly dance in winter’s breeze,
You flourish while all others freeze
And warm our hearts.
You mark the point when winter flees
And springtime starts.

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Where Do I Go?

When I sleep, where do I go?
The I that is Me?
The I of conscious thought?
Does that I in sleep die?
But, if I do,
How am I resurrected on awakening?
Or is sleep the end of the working day for I?
Where do I go after working?
Do I have a life independent of Me?
And, if so, what is that life?
And, if it is I that creates the consciousness of Me,
Am I Me?
Or does Me just think I am?

Grant The Snapper

(This was inspired by a couple of posts on the Real Edinburgh Facebook page during the coronavirus lockdown, and the comments on those posts)

As kitchen cupboards empty oot
An’ as fridge freezers follow suit
Whilst we sit gazin’ at the telly,
An’ constant grazin’ fills oor belly,
We hae tae start tae contemplate
That we maun rise an’ tak’ the gate,
Grit oor teeth, fur noo oor target
Is the local supermarket.

This truth fand honest Grant The Snapper
Edinburgh’s real-est photo-grapher
Edinburgh, which Glesga says wi’ sniggers,
Has furry coats an’ absent knickers.

O Grant! hads’t thou been a wee bit wiser
An’ worn a hazmat suit an’ visor,
Thou’d no hae been at risk frae these
Coronavirus spreadin’ numpties,
The unsocially close-at-hand
That roam aboot this bonnie land,
The self-isolated-brain-celled yins
That fur oor safety dinnae gi’ twa pins.

But to oor tale – ae Saturday
Grant prepared to enter the fray.
He looked oot a’ the bags fur life,
Then went in search o’ his guid wife.
He fand her feedin’ the wee dug, Scrappy,
Wha was waggin’ his tail an’ unco happy.
Grant and Mrs RE made a list
An’ at the door, fareweel they kissed.

As Grant shop-ward made his way
He mused on thoughts o’ happier days;
O’ Forth Brig photies, an’ sunset skies,
An’ new moon shots tae win a prize,
O’ goin’ oot fur hoors an’ hoors
Photographin’ bonnie floo’ers,
O’ fishin’ on the Union Canal
Where he had made an otter pal.

But joys like that were in the past,
The picture ta’en, the fish hook cast,
Or were, in hopes, in times tae come
When gatherin’s were again welcome.
For noo it was self-isolation
That would help tae heal the nation;
All maun stay apart six feet or more
Whene’er they are across the door.

After travellin’ streets where cars were few,
The supermarket cam’ intae view.
Cars a’ parked three spaces apart,
It seemed tae be a promisin’ start.
Folks queued in a well-spaced line,
Everything was lookin’ fine.
Staff let folk in in ones and twos,
‘Twas the most orderly of queues.
But when his entry got the green light
Oh no! Grant saw an unco sight!

Couples wi’ fower trollies an’ twenty-six weans
Debatin’ the merits o’ peas versus beans;
Wifies bletherin’ like they’ve got a’ day,
Their trollies span the aisle and block up the way;
A one-way system marked on the ground
Ignored by a’body stravaigin’ around;
Folks leanin’ o’er ithers, just tae glaum
Frae off the shelf a wee pack o’ ham;
Folk coughin’ an’ sneezin’, nae hanky in sight,
Intent, it would seem, on sharin’ the blight.

As he looked ae way an’ syne anither
Grant tint his reason a’ thegither
An’ roared oot, “ARE YE JOKIN’ ME??”
An’ in an instant, turned tae flee.

Back hame wi’ crisps and fizzy pop,
An’ chocolate biscuits fae the corner shop,
Grant took tae Facebook tae vent his spleen,
And soon the comments filled his screen
Frae ithers who’d endured the same,
And cries went up to name and shame.

Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man, and mither’s son, tak heed:
Whene’er tae shop ye are inclined,
Keep one thing clearly in your mind –
Keep your distance during this lockdown,
Or Grant will come and hunt you down!

Confusion

Spinning round and round and round,
dizziness swelling.
Where to go now?
Frantically rushing,
here and there,
reddened faces coming and going,
collisions and confusion reign;
always returning somehow to the same face.
Then retracing the steps,
no escape,
frantically trying to keep up;
and then back once again,
confusion is doubled,
only by good fortune is disaster averted.
Spinning,
more spinning,
more dizziness.
Strip The Willow is a bewildering dance to the uninitiated!