Jim Scallan Biography

The street urchin selling matches
Matted hair and tattered clothes
A face of pasty grey.
Trying simply to survive
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Once proud stone walls now choked with tendrils of ivy,
Gaping windows stare forlornly at the leaden sky.
Missing slates let in the winter rain
To trickle slowly through the broken door
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I looked upon a soft green hill
Newborn lambs just down below
As the mist flows down the forest glen
I have to let it go.
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The voices of the past surround us
From a forgotten, distant time.
Past generations send their songs to us
In the whisperings of the pines.
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The chimneypots silhouetted on the evening sky,
Fading shades of blue with passing clouds of pewter grey.
The fall of night in a small town,
The promise of another day.
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