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Andy Bisset
Born and raised in Aberdeen, I have recently returned from two years study in Ireland. Poetry? For me it is the best possible words used in the best possible order. My work is a great release. Spring Tides? My true home from home.
Poems
BÉALTAINE
Autumn arrives in Springtime
Down Apple blossomed avenues.
Decaying matter shrouding
Béaltaines carpet.
Cailleach bow heads
Resembling withering bluebells
Tip-toeing through dappled fields,
Afraid of dream strew pathways,
Fearing the future –
Summer or winter –
Like trembling lambs
Newborn, astray,
Eager to return.
The womb.
Máthair Alba.
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INCUBUS SANCTUM
Sunlight, lambasting
florid tapestries
loomed by men of God
in ancient robes,
silently gliding
through decayed cloisters,
passing stagnant pools
reflecting moonlight.
Beneath sweltering rays –
like blunt nails, piercing
each inch of dermis –
lying beaded,
releasing the past,
purging heart and soul,
I wish starlit skies,
begging forgiveness.
Warm as modelling clay
formed by devilled hands,
our vista contorts
land torn open.
Sinking, swallowed whole,
swathed in earthen shroud,
I Breathe fetid air
within mother earth.
Spat from gaping wound,
Projected through hell,
Towards Murias,
Deposited
On heavenly glens,
Longing daybreaks smile,
I lie in ruins.
Generations end.
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HALF MOON BAY
Crouching by Half Moon Bay
Warm feelings of summer
Lie wincing on cold shores.
The lone white swan,
Swimming slowly through still,
Serene sprinkled silence,
Stifles the muted hush.
Reflections hide and seek
Behind barnacled clouds.
Elongated torsos
Suggestively flit by
Inflamed in orange hats,
Departing through exits
Entering other worlds.
Rains tickle bow and limb,
Caressing tender frond.
Soothing waters cleansing,
Anointing plant and beast.
Heads gently lift. Birds fly
Towards warm golden fields
Guarding deep blue heavens.
Evening weeps on Half Moon Bay
Peering through soiled skies,
Projecting images –
Pure, unblemished, complete.
Darkening silhouettes,
Vanishing in half light,
Now Vespers' balladeers.
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