Shire Fields
By Drumwhindle: On a slope
of the old railway line.
Below, three dogs as wet as fog,
scatter combed shire-crumb.
No-one to call them,
their fur dagged with loam,
as if they could run
for a month and never tire.
My mind flips. I look
for vulnerable livestock,
but see none.
Under the shadow of this cold front,
the hedgerow willow backs and bellies.
Its spite robbed by the wind.
Even with two woollen hats,
my earlobes tingle.
Bernard Briggs
Shire Hills
At last, I’m leaning
my back against cold concrete.
Mither Tap’s trig-point,
a small shelter. To the west,
sky less blue. Summit smudges
rolling against each other. Incoming
clouds rain-dragging to the north-east.
A storm, due later over Kinnaird head.
Plucking a heather-head
from between two smoothed stones,
I hold it up to the sun; sepals cupping
pink urn-shaped flowers.
Nature could teach my boots
a thing or two about design.
Bernard Briggs
Love Aberdeenshire 