On the hill lies a silver-lit sky;
a dad has a snooze on a grey tartan rug;
in the crook of his arm, sitting snug,
a grey baby’s giving the camera the eye.

Hunkered down in the burn with a stick,
a grey lassie pokes at a snag of white bones;
grey water slides over clear stones,
and plops into pools that are Guinnessy black.

From the bracken two pheasants explode;
Tweed’s stony banks clink, as its ripples slip by;
peewits squeak black and white as they fly;
a Norton and sidecar wait down at the road.

© Anne Armstrong

Anne Armstrong is a member of Clyde Valley Writers.