woodpecking echoes the cuckoo’s call
did we hear too the forest trees fall
or could that have been the grumpity roar
of rudely awakened overslept boar?

twit goes the skylark
peep peep sounds the tit
chirping is the chaffinch
rounding all of it
arark screams the raven
above woodpigeons coos
silent floats the sparrowhawk
taking in the view

silent as a falling leaf
or as the fated wren
seen by keen eyes in the sun
it’s eyes won’t see again.

Highland Games (a Mc’Memory)

In sconnie Botland once I roamed
with torpedoes on my back
and sank a little fishing boot
and a shepherd’s shearing shack
I stayed inside a rocking horse
by the name of Tingle Creek
and drank his bridle all but dry
before I’d stayed a week
I took the low road home again
as the high one was too long
and Mulling on a punctured tyre
I began this silly song.