Josie and I are walking in the quarry, maintaining a two metre distance. She’s
converted her yoga class, which usually takes place in the village hall, into an on-line
class: to start soon, or so she intends. She’s been using her sisters in a trial.
As she continues to explain, we notice two small boys coming along the path. One is
the son of a local crofter and has a toy gun. The school was closed yesterday and
already the kids need things to do. We shift position on the path, so everyone can
keep a self-distance. As the boys reach us, the one with the gun feels the need to
“We are shooting things”, he says, holding up his weapon.
“The enemy?”, I ask.
“Yes”, he answers.
“But do you know where the enemy are?”, I ask.
“Not really”, he explains. “They could be anywhere. So we fire at pretend things”.
Josie and I head on. I will be joining her class. But I’ll also be firing my toy gun at some pretend things.
Bruach Mhor lives by a loch, is transitioning into a seal, thinks about seaweed.
His poems have most recently appeared in The Interpreter’s House, Ink+ Sweat and Tears,
Re-Side, Broken Spine Artists Collective, Morphrog, The Lake, Poetry Village.