blue hour

droppings from the rabbit hole... 19

The blue hour, looking down towards the lights and rooftops of Kelso, the same tree as yesterday's blip in the lower right of the photo, the colour some trick of the light and maybe the window, another day snowed in... other memories of the place beginning to stir … another snow storm and a brown allegro heading back up to Edinburgh, a whiteout hitting just before the  descent towards the tight corners and small bridge over Eden water, hitting a patch of ice, skidding off the road at walking pace “You might want to turn... “ I said... “Haven't been in control since the bridge” came the reply just before we met with the verge … a sheet of paper brought out of a folder, the scratched contents of another night here, a summer morning when here was two doors along, sitting in the garden as the first traces of dawn began to illuminate the landscape, pen and paper in hand... 

Blinkbonny farm

In this night garden, silence
creeps through nettles,
pauses screech
owl lit through trees,
scenting the hour with pine
or navigating thistle
and willowherb,
scurrying into the wells
of darkness.

From where I stand
stilled fireworks define the town;
the river, valleyed black
and subtle changing, hue
reflecting starlit skies,
uncertain with distance

The stars apparent, perennial
in any sense applicable to man,
pass unmoving above the racing hour
and tint with blossom
the brightening air.

Too soon, the dandelion sun
brings glory and wishes:
the sleepers stir,
as dawn silhouettes
the hill gentle horizon,
forgetful of these fragile hours.