CONSOLATION

We missed the bus to Tobermory,
so we drowned our tears
at the Keel Row Pub.
Grizzled, stinky whiskered fishermen
in yellow slickers pounded down pints.
We ate our greasy lunches,
and drank our opaque ales
as we huddled ‘round a wee table
in a midnight dark corner
at midday,
and laughed
until the ferry boat came.

WHERE OLD MEN GO

Some old men sit on porches,
on swings, in rockers.
Others walk a pier,
fishing pole and tackle box in hand.
If they’re lucky,
a young ‘un tags along.

But my old mind wanders
to a solo spot
atop Staffa,
a small Scottish isle.

Walking through foot high wild grass,
I lift my legs in exaggerated motion.
Just ahead, hundreds of feet
below this hillock, I hear the sea.
Stepping gingerly, I find rock steps,
leading me to a stone shelf
made just for me to sit a while,
and be alone with the sea and the waves
and my old man thoughts and dreams.