Sunday, 18 August 2013

The Sidlaw Hills




My heart lies under,
A small patch of land,
Not mapped by satellites,
To which I have the rights,
A postage of Angus,
In the countryside,
I know the quarry,
And discovered the rocks.

Don’t let anyone say,
That they were there before me,
I was the first and I’ll be the last,
On my small mental holding.

I was scratched by the gorse,
And I married the heather,
The white clover burns my soul,
On the little patch of Angus,
To which I’m tethered.

My dad was there with his dad,
Forgetting about everything,
They roared in silence,
About the myth of accession,
Laughed and derided,
The prison of possession.


My dad was there with his dad,
Forgetting about everything,
They roared in silence,
About the myth of accession,
Laughed and derided,
The prison of possession.

But I possess my little patch,
And it possesses me,
Locked together as one,
Eternally.

My father is there,
And he and I,
Share tea from the fire,
And views by and by.

Yes my heart lies under,
A small patch of land,
Bang on those Sidlaw Hills.




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