Hamish Gregor Macgregor

His name was Hamish Gregor Macgregor,
Born and raised in the land of the Scots,
A beast of a man with hair of red
and a beard that seemed made out of knots.

He was a true, blue, Scot and everyone knew him,
His Ceilidhs were the talk of the land,
he would fill up his store with drink, meat and more,
and dust off the old music stand.

I'll never forget that night we met,
all those years ago,
my car had broken down and I was waiting with it,
when he came over and bellowed 'Hello'

'My name is Hamish Gregor Macgregor'
He said in a voice that shook the ground,
'I'm only being friendly, don't look so shocked,
I've just never seen you around'

I explained I was in Scotland on a business trip,
and was just waiting for someone to come fix my car,
he stroked his beard 'they won't be here for hours,
come back to mine, it isn't too far'

I declined his offer with a polite 'No, thanks,
I should probably just wait right here'
'But I'm having a Ceilidh, I insist you come,
there will be dancing and eating and beer'

'Well, I do like those things, Hamish' I said
As my resolve to stay with the car started flagging,
'and the best thing' he grinned 'about my Ceilidhs,
is that after the dancing we move on to the shagging'

I must admit that when I heard those words
my heart skipped a beat,
'Let's not hang around then Hamish, dear friend,
Let's get going, come on, move those feet!'

His name was Hamish Gregor Macgregor,
hair of red and built like a bear,
and I swear I never knew when he invited me along,
that it would only be the two of us there.

For Fear

We do not speak anymore,
for fear,
that when we do, it will all escape that we know nothing about coping
with this,
this,
this being that clings to us for life.

I do not sleep anymore,
or leave the house,
except for once a week,
when I flee my happy home,
and,
my Bundle of Joy.

And I will endure?

Because,
because now,
they have taken everything
and they are all I have left.

The Dweller

At first his presence disturbed me,
curled up in a corner,
at the bottom of the stairs.
His face,
a mess of unwashed hair,
framing those sad, tired eyes.
His body,
a malnourished support for a great, green coat,
stained from years of loyal service.
Once, overcome with pity, I pulled a note from my pocket,
and I held it out to him.
His eyes,
traveled from the note,
in my hand,
to my face,
and then closed.
He retreated further in to his corner.
The next day he was gone,
leaving nothing,
but a faint smell,
which, eventually, faded.