Poetry | Ink Sweat and Tears

Col Fleetwood

Muckle Flugga

Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp

Policed by the unsettling glare
of nesting great skuas
we tread the narrow path

The boardwalk rises and falls
under a sky empty
and scoured of song

To the lighthouse
in search of the solan goose
we press on

Until all land ends
pearl-studded cliffs rear up
to arrest us

And the pitch of the sea
snares the unquiet silence
of our voices

Col Fleetwood lives and writes in the wild and beautiful borderlands between Scotland and England.

At half a tonne in weight
It was like the anchor –

They lie deep in a forest, wounds
unseen, unhealed. Further back,
an escarpment with dark scars.

There’s a hiss as he eases himself in
to the green pool, steam in his smoky hair.

It’s forbidden to call it war.
We’re here to liberate you;
ignore the glide bombs as they roar.

You and I sit
facing each other
in dialogue
across the table

Imagine a spring day drawing out possibilities
the newness of life, sisters in long skirts digging
tangled ground, breaking bones and loam wild

Newton didn’t discover gravity
The apple did.

the window is a derivative landscape
painting: streaks of blue for a sky,

With the completion of mindset
my life is in order, two weeks after
the day before.