a grave

day:

see the colonial scot

ride his bicycle

across the hills

his Calvinistic aura

born and bred by

his father's brother,s 

bawdy bird song

and the weavers

weaving that undone

he preaches god 

as Knox knew him

and Chalmers as

Jesus shew him

his father through

the holy spirit in 

these eldered halls

with farms enclosed by

predestined stone walls 

fortified by Wallaces bonnie bosom

and the heart of burns

taking times to bless those

born on the Phillip Laing

and taking turns to adapt 

to this there new home

while hailstones thunder there new hymn

night:

seeking light in dun eideann

its hollow forests and

flowing rivers

the local bush shivers

and botanic gardens

sporting new flowers

for youthful lovers

its statue of peter pan

and its pubs empowers

the monged out shitkickers

and joyriders lent to Milton

a fire is lit and prayed upon 

by Cargill's lot as if to ask 

for some water to put out 

the holy drought

a burning bushel, a light

a mystic state the family 

dont hesitate to put themselves to bed

while the drunkard whistles in the woods outside 

walking home

the ploughman poets walking on the steps