Three Poems

Art

Thunder clears its throat.
The cloud is almost black

and the shape of Scotland,
like its own weather map.

The rain dribbles shorthand
on the window, and obscures

the crotchets of the birds
on the stave of the fence,

who don’t sing their notes,
but faithfully represent.



Giants

Now I’m the same height as I was then
as a toddler on my small father’s shoulders

when I squeezed his ears with my doughnut
knees held on with my hands over his glasses

I feel a simultaneous kinship with the son
...