Author Archives: kirstymill

Ode to a telephone box

There it stands. Metal and glass with faded red paint. Glass dirty and smeared. Metal rusting. Door askew. Once a place of significance and of purpose, now abandoned, alone. Redundant. Erected in years past by people long forgotten, for methods … Continue reading

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The day the stags roared

It was a day when the stags roared. We walked along routes used in ages past. Along tarmacked roads, past machair and grey-blue sea. Then inland. Green grazed fields, golden moor and heather, sheep, geese and buzzard, onto earth and … Continue reading

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The stone

“You’ll probably be disappointed when you see it”, said Meg. I assured her that was not going to be the case; I was very much looking forward to our outing and the object of this walk. We were a small … Continue reading

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City, paused

What to write in the middle of a pandemic? I walked to my local park today. The sun was shining. It was warm and the sky was blue, though there was a slight chill in the wind. The cherry trees … Continue reading

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Winter sun

It is the end of the year. The sun is low in the sky, glimpsed through the bare branches of the trees as I move through the wood. On this short day, the sun has not risen far above the … Continue reading

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The rocky shore

A rocky shore, under Blue skies of a summer’s day. Bird song and seal sneezes, A sweet scent in the air. It is a warm summer’s day and I am standing on a familiar rocky shore. The air is quiet, … Continue reading

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Entangled

There are House Martins nesting under the eaves of the tenements near my flat. I see them each morning and evening as I walk to and from work, swooping and flying above my head. I hear them too as they … Continue reading

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The healing place

It is somewhere people used to come for healing. I pass by while on my own restorative, health-giving pursuit. A slight haze hangs in the air, giving the place a mysterious quality. I think it beautiful and appropriate. Later I … Continue reading

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Inscribed

It is a warm autumn day. The sun is shining and I am warm in my thick winter coat. I stand on the damp sand of a Dumfriesshire beach. Close by my 9-year-old niece is crouched, stick in hand, drawing … Continue reading

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Listening to the stones

It is an old friend, the stone. A friend to whom I infrequently pay my respects. This year, sand martins are flitting, wheeling and turning overhead as I make my short respectful pilgrimage. Admiring the acrobatics of the birds above, … Continue reading

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