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sisters & sparrows

Poetry. Photography. Life.


Poetry by Don Paterson
In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet’s early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it’s not love’s later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer’s — boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene. 

Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.

Scotland has been on my mind.  I want to be there, scrambling up some heath covered mountain, treading in sheep poo too busy looking at the view, spotting birds of prey, dancing ceilidhs, holing up in some ancient little cottage by a loch, washing in ice cold water, building fires, frost patterns on the windows, plenty of blankets and hot tea and so on.  Lovely.  The ‘Visit Scotland’ advert has clearly done its job!

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