I think this exercise; can at best, be described as an emotive regression.

I also think, as one gets older, one spends more time reflecting on the past than contemplating the future.

Which I suppose is not entirely true , as I often speculate as to whether the auld Ferintosh in the bottle will last the night out.

Occasionally, I get quite worried over it.

O! such is the uncertainty of life.

When taxes and death are upon us like a pre-cut gravestone, they create our very own magnum opus.

Who cares they can dig me up, any time they want; they will not find anything in the cupboard, after Manchester City loses the cup.

Which reminds me, that I was once severely castigated by a pompous moderator on Eratosphere for using that beautiful vowel the omega O in Poetry.

No such word in English she thundered, which I found very strange as a great number of hydraulic appliances use O-rings, because of them being round and very good at sealing things.

Maybe she is not technically minded, these rural types seldom are.

I recently spent a week, trying to; explain to, an auld Welsh cailleach in Callander, the difference between a chicken and hen, apparently, it appears that her college education did not cover such subjects.

 It’s nae wonder thae guid folk o’ Callander think that she is mair than slightly odd, she may have arrived in Scotland  in a Albion charabanc, however, I for one did not return to “That land of Calvin, oatcakes, and sulphur” By sailing up the Clyde on a banana boat.

This exercise of sanguine imagination (I have as you have probably noticed a tendency to exaggerate slightly) and poetic exuberance, whereby any dialectal intercourse would of course never see the light of day under the steely gaze of Paul Muldoon.

Who, I believe has been invited to judge poetry in Manchester of all places, Ah well!

Shamus is now dead. Who else is there around to turn the peats, with those tarisker‘s fine blades of literature and dissertation.

 Love and the Old Aspen Tree.  Re-Wrought, with the undoubted help of the Bennachie distillery, whose single malt goes a long way in solving many of life’s irritating problems.

It certainly gets rid of the local academic crowd, resident in our fair sized conurbation.

Namely, the Oxford Road and Sackville Street fubberies, they commonly known, as the Rusholme curry and lager louts.

If only their nocturnal habits were more entertaining such as in Didsbury, where our poet laureate resides, apparently she get a fair few bottles of wine a year as one of the appointed perks to tide her over during the dry period.

It was down through lush meadow

across green tempered lea.

Where I considered peregrination,

that’s if metonymic word, were free,

as in mind’s own aberrant scene.

To walk back through the years

of a dominion’s far indent of station.

Where summer’s scented perfume

meanders in wafture’s sweet sapour, 

to sublimate with its dilection

of tenure’s oft, regrant amore.

Cause I to amain, in words seldom seen,

as I glimpse briefly that fixation;

of ardour, thro’ silk’s tremulant screen.

Where silver leaves did tremble

in their prurient recall.

Emotion’s plenary graced

its congruous ensemble

of those warm, summer days

when fresh youth, had it all.

Yet mind’s eye still sees her,

As age ne’er wearies of loves

own continuo’s replay.

Or memories far-off melisma

allow solace etiolate away,

from a long faded snapshot

of a hot summer’s day.

Spelled by pure moment, and nature’s orle

soft lustred leaves, did so remind me.

Of times when our love, was warm as the day.

It ne’er an essence- young thought, it betray.

As wandered, I through, trefoil's white-flecked lea.   

Those troubles of life, they again travail me.

My steps so halting and now hesitant slow

who on such a journey would seek it to show.

Those paths ne’er chosen would go such a way.

an allée posted bare of its poor pour boire.

Whose dreams are but all dé modé and passé

what needs have we for such aide-mémoire

For time has healed nothing we so value and care

When we so carry burdens we’re to selfish too share.

There circle our dreams with wishes that life would make fair.

How traumatic- when love- creates darkly despair...

And shows us that black arras

we ne’er had a wish its last closure declare.

For there as I glanced back, with sad tear to my eye.

I heard so faintly, a softly- whispered good-bye’.