Harold Macdonald's Muse






















Summer Pentecost



Harold Macdonald

The blooms will be red this year, she decrees.
For blood spilt? For the banked up anger
always glowing? The rage quenched
by the sudden tide of tears?
Or is it the Spirit, the unintended
Pentecost of life, of vigour bursting


Pentecost should have been dove
white, a cooing  colour, a place of
peace. But life is blood and blood,
pain - and suffering as invisible
as wind in a  Banff brochure,
is the ever present feel of
getting old.


My daughter and family
have bought a place nearby.
Now the crumbling past meets
the boistrous  future! A baby in a pram,
a little girl walking down the lane
to visit her grandma in her pentecostal


Midi: Ebenezer