Four Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Four men digging peats on the moor
Iain, Hamilton, Findlay, Neil
Cutting them neat with their flauchter spades
Pushing and lifting, hand and heel

Iain will die by a stranger’s car
(Oh how narrow the roads, and bent)
Under a sky of stars and rain
And a sickle moon in the firmament

Hamilton, he’ll have a living death
Dottled and rambling, thoughts awry
Pity the man of sense bereft
Like a grey scarecrow hung out to dry

Findlay, he’ll take a walk with drink
Down, down, down, into beggar’s lane
One more thing for the skip to shift
Dead in a night of snow and pain

Neil will die by a surgeon’s knife
Quick and easy he’ll quit his place
With three grown strapping sons behind
To fill his space in the human race