Hugh McMillan

The Old Fort at Grennan

Miles, and nothing alive though an oystercatcher calls somewhere, sadly. Dykes twist to the horizon. Where are the men who built them? Gone to Nova Scotia with their pipes and neckerchiefs. On either side of the walls, new wire restrains …

Posted in 82: LAND | Tagged


Emptying cupboards from the pre-Homeric Classroom era, through strata thick as Schliemann’s Troy. I am looking for bedrock and the world before printing when we worked with our bare minds or a single piece of paper rolled soaking wet from …

Posted in 71: TOIL | Tagged