Older, only slightly wiser, less clever.
Lets the duller plants go to seed.
Knows his corvids, knows his orchid names,
some important technicalities.
Nods to fellow villagers, moves on.
No church: the buzzard hill is a chapel
to this strictly-two-pint man.
Friendship has a small crew: all matter.
Hates talk shows. Reads about pods of whales,
falls asleep to downloads of their calls.
Bruach Mhor lives by a loch in the Hebrides. He is transitioning into a seal.
His poems have most recently appeared in The Lake, Plumwood Mountain, Emerald (Monstrous Regiment Publishing, Edinburgh).