fur Ian Scorgie

I drew frae the conjuror's hat
A whylie's silence.
Through the stage-door trap,
I drapt, in unencumbered solitude
Doon, in a well o' quietude
The wheels unfurl yonder
The cardboord scenery's tint
There's naethin tae dae bit ponder,
There in the inmaist cell o the mind
It's still as a lily, aathegither bare.
The cycle o Alpha an Omega's
Straucht as a die. Ye can be
An unfauldin petal
An inwardly-turnin ee
Hyne ooto the want-an-wish
A nameless, ebony fish
Dartin the depths,
O cosmic consciousness