My first published poem in my own name was Johnnie Wilson's Day, which won the Leopard Magazine poetry competition in in 1993. At the time the £500 prize was the biggest in Scotland for a single poem.  

I published my first volume of poems "Langshaw Echoes" later that year which sold nearly 700 copies. In 1994 I won the Leopard prize again, this time with "Auld Brookie". I published my second volume of poems "The Clipping" in 1997.

In 1999 I formed a creative partnership with photographer Gordon Hunter. We worked on a series of picture poems which linked my poetry with Gordon's photographs of scenes from the endangered Scottish Borders rural heritage at the turn of the millennium. In 2000 we were invited to exhibit our work, entitled "Scottish Inheritance" at the Scottish Writer's Museum, on Edinburgh's Royal Mile.  The exhibition raised over £3000 which we donated to the Royal Agricultural Benevolent Society following the tragedy which was the 2001 foot and mouth outbreak.

I've been influenced at various times by Norman McCaig, Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, George Mackay Brown, Edwin Morgan, Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, Yehuda Amichai, Robert Burns, Hugh McDairmid, and R.S Thomas.

I've recently started working on a new collection of work which I hope to publish early in 2010 entitled "Surface Diving".

Don Ledingham, Smithy House, Langshaw, 2009

E-mail donledingham@btinternet.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Surface Diving

 

Diving deep and plunging

Perpendicular to the present

Sliding down through versions of myself

Identikit recognitions fleetingly glimpsed

This boy, this youth, this man

Standing beyond, detached, not me

Living in their worlds

Deeper and darker

Reaching out beyond the light

Where self no longer

Has a place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

December Milking

Shackled to his rock

He orbits round his chosen hours,

Yet it chose him,

Picked him from the crib

And left him here without a place to go.

   

Yet his ladies wait their turn

And heave their heavy bags

Between their spindled legs,

Suspending from a scaffold frame

Their precious loads,

Which bulge against their swing.

   

Escaping from the gloom,

Their well-chewed breaths

Rise above the biting cold,

And white trickles from a teat

Tracing lazy lines and circles

Amongst the shit slapped floor.

   

He locks into his ritual

And readies for the dance,

Pacing round his pulpit,

Gently laying hands

And tracing daughters back

Some thirty years.

   

A meeting of machines,

One bred, one made,

Each built to fit the other,

Turning green to white,

As pulsing beat of stainless steel

Sucks its greedy fill.

   

He takes his pride from here,

Measuring against the past,

Driven on by need

To prove himself, against himself,

To make his mark upon the land.

   

And yet, not far from here

It lies in sterile lines,

Loss leader for the giants,

Who squeeze pennies from the tit,

And slowly close their careless fingers

Around a way of life.

 

 

 

 

 

A Piper's Farewell

I heard them call the numbers from the crowd

And each stepped forwards to the edge

To take a plaited, tasseled cord

And lay me gently in my grave.

I’d stood too often in the past

And watched this scene

And watched the soil tossed upon a polished box,

(It sounds much louder from down here)

And then, from far above my head

I heard the pipes begin to play

And slowly lift me from this place.

And standing upright once again

I threw my drones across my shoulder

And matched him note for note.

   

We walked together, happy now

To leave that rotten, rotting body

To feel the joy of freedom

To feel the ground beneath my feet

To feel the wind against my face

To feel the air within my lungs.

We marched a slow march

My kilt swung upon my hips

My fingers caressing every note

He stopped; I didn’t; I couldn’t; I wouldn’t.

Marching on and on

Free to march upon my hill

To take my pipes

And play my tunes at will.

 

 

 

 

 

A Book of Remembrance

Sandwiched between

Ledgerwood-Walker. B.G.

And Lee. A.T.

Is Ledingham. D. J.

So many unknown people

Sharing the same space.

A regiment of L’s

Waiting by their phones. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Child's Hand

Take your child by the hand

And hold the future there.

Keep him upright if you can

Release him if you dare.

 

 

 

 

 

A Place to Start Walking From

A place to start walking from

Can never be a destination on its own

But must settle for being a setting off point

Within easy reach of somewhere more interesting

Just like the man who has many friends 

But who never receives a visitor

Or the woman who has much to tell

But never features in others conversations.

Perhaps a place to start walking from

Is not such a bad place after all?

 

 

 

 

 

A Poacher's Regret

The torchlight scans the silent surface,

Drawing patterns with its deadly spot.

Its pencil beam slipping through reflections,

Intrudes another world.

As slips of silver belly-up before its path,

Vanishing in puffs of silt,

Or pause a second,

Before they scream beyond detection.

Waving weed, an old pipe and a big black stone,

Each hold the light in turn,

And each stretch a heartbeat,

In false anticipation.

Then, as eyes water with the wind,

Its destined form appears,

The massive shape berths hard against the bank.

Smoothing through the water's edge.

For reasons best known to itself,

Disdain, fatigue or resignation?

It lies untroubled by the light,

As instinct drives it on.

To travel oceans on an ageless trip,

It had surely left all dangers far behind.

Yet sliding in beyond its sight,

An arm extends the stainless hook.

Its body gently waves,

As the point draws level with its gills,

And in a fatal instant,

I feel its weight. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

A Pound of Flesh

“I’ll take a pound”

“A pound?”

“A pound” he said.

“Now take this tree”.

I held the first of many.

And listened to living memories

To opinions and judgement

Recollection and principle.

I never thought to interrupt his flow.

He didn’t need me.

Fighting in the jungle

Burma to the Borders.

Trees, Churchill, Hiroshima

Atlantic crossings, dairies, Reivers,

Clydesdales, Reich and home.

Somewhere, deep inside

There lurked a tap.

It flowed.

Seventy years of human experience

Unedited

But seen only from one window.

And yet

A pound well spent.

This poem recounts the first time I met Haig Douglas.  I simply asked him if I could walk my dog on his land.  Haig Douglas was a member of the famous Border family of the same name. He farmed at Glendearg for over forty years and took a particular interest in tree planting and local history.  He fought in the jungle campaigns during the Second World War and never took a backward step in his life.  Haig Douglas died in 1998.

 

 

 

 

 

A World Without Adjectives

Bare,

Bones,

Monochrome,

Stripped lines,

Which only come alive

Within the mind.

Growing there

Like seeds,

Which flourish

Despite neglect

And stony ground 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Address Book

Looking for a number

Amongst the couples.

All neatly stacked,

In alphabetical order,

I saw some names,

Some single names.

Cut off from their partners

By a bold black line.

Gone,

Just like that,

One by one,

Picked off by the years. 

 

 

 

 

 

After the Rabbit Shoot

It held my eye

Meeting me in silent witness

Distorting my reflection

With its unyielding stare

   

It forced my hand

Leaving me without an option

And I closed its window on the world

Before it got too close.

 

 

 

 

 

Assault on Smailholm Tower

Cold shadows grow their silhouette

Against a waking sky

As monochrome surrenders to the dawn

And sandstone embers flicker into life.

Flat sunbeams scream across the ground

To sacrifice themselves

Against the stubborn walls.

Their orange fire explodes upon the eye

And leave their imprint on the mind

Long after walls have turned back to stone

And daylight's cutting edge departs. 

 

 

 

 

 

Black Tie

Amongst the silks and paisley patterns

The dicky bows and shepherd’s tartans

The checks and asymmetric lines

The emblems of forgotten times.

There lurks a dark oppressive presence.

It beat me to the finish of this poem.

Returned to the back of the wardrobe

I catch the occasional glimpse in the morning

And hope it bides its time. 

 

 

 

 

 

Boundaries

Submerging silhouettes

Their rotting half made whole

By calm reflections

Support their rusted barbs

Which twist and intertwine

In sad, demented lines

An edge no more

They fight to keep their hold

To save their kind

Or have they,

With purpose lost

Simply waded to their end

As water and the land

Reclaim their liberty

By biding time.

 

 

 

 

 

Burr Elm Table

Sweeping to the surface

From galactic depths

Two hundred years boil, twist and spiral

Their currents splitting

On giant boulders

Surging, swelling

Flash flooding

Carving deep valleys

Which open onto plains

Smoothing into eddies

Backwaters, rivulets

As deep pools

Of timelessness

Becalm their flow

An instant,

Or lifetime? 

 

 

 

 

 

Button Jar

There they found it,

Where she’d left it,

Tucked behind the tins and jars.

A lifetime held within a moment,

A secret trove,

They dare not open.

Buttons cut from every garment,

He had worn throughout their union,

Simple shirts to army greatcoats,

Brass and bone and wood and leather,

Each one held a magic measure,

Provided her a priceless treasure.

Now she’s gone,

They’ve lost their lustre.

The thread is broken,

Disconnected,

Partial stories,

Recollected,

Cannot fill the button jar 

 

 

 

 

 

Shoveling memories

The North Atlantic swallowed them whole

Covering their tracks with freezing fog

Whilst deep beneath the waterline he prayed

Shoveling coal to push them home.

They felt the presence of the wolves

And huddled close as if for warmth

Whilst terrored eyes scanned the careless sea

And still he shoveled his inferno.

They saw the wake too late

And screamed their pointless warning.

It broke in two - BROKE IN TWO!

21,000 tonnes and 600 men.

And every Sunday afternoon

He comes here to feed the ducks

And shovel memories

To the back of his mind 

 

 

 

 

 

Cotswold Stone

Honeyed

Smooth

Perfection

But churchyard

Names

Dissolve

Before your eyes

A surface -

Reclaimed 

 

 

 

 

 

Crow Concerto

Black minims,

Crotchets and quavers,

Eight birds to a bar.

The five line stave sags heavy with their weight,

As three semi tones and an A sharp,

Change places.

Before melody takes off into

Flights of

Pandemonium 

 

 

 

 

 

Crow Trap

Abandoned to its savage task

The fleshless carcass,

A skeleton of death,

Awaits in shamed seclusion.

Its tortured beams

Treat gravity and symmetry

As twin impostors

And build false shelter

Deep within the moor.

It draws eccentric wing-beats

To its vortex

With stench of rotting flesh

And envy at an other’s fortune.

An ironic perch

Bathed in fleeting sunshine

Gives little hint

Of terrors held within.

Inside, a black whirlwind

Thrashes against the wire

In frenzied replay

Tempted by the free horizon

And a towering sky.

Until released by man

Who throws its neck

Without a thought

And drops it to the ground.

Free at last. 

 

 

 

 

 

Cynic

Beware!

Bitterness,

Can foul your soul.

Its brackish taste

Lends acrid flavour

To the sweetest dish.

Twisting smile to sneer

To feed off

Blame and scorn,

As envy and contempt,

Infecting with their bile,

Give jaundiced eyes their proof.

Until,

It turns on itself.

And eats us from within

 

 

 

 

 

Dictionary

Words,

Parked passively

In ordered ranks.

Bombs without warheads.

Needing only

Juxtaposition

To give them life. 

 

 

 

 

 

DL + GL 82-07

You found our letters

Cut deep, bottomless,

Felt them smooth against the rough bark,

Traced your finger over our years

Closed your eyes and followed the lines.

Imagining these people, us people

Who etched our mark here, momentarily,

Strangers, intruding on your space

Reaching forwards to ask our question

Our uncomfortable truth

Whose lovers vow, proclaimed here

In boastful anonymity

Carves itself upon your mind

 

 

 

 

 

Doorway on the past

There is a door in our house.

I stripped it bare,

One wet Sunday afternoon.

Written, up-side down,

In the bottom left hand corner,

Was a message.

“Remember to feed the horses”

It’s still there,

Under ‘Sunburst Yellow Satin Gloss’

 

 

 

 

 

Double Beds

Make no sense.

For function is not served

By rolling to the middle,

Wrestled sheets,

Flatulence,

Or snores.

Yet husbands

Feel abandoned

At the threat

Of single beds.

 

 

 

 

 

Douglas Fir

With no-one watching,

It shouldered through

The grudging ground.

Thrusting up from deep

Within the Earth

An instant spire,

Which pierced the sky

At perfect angles,

And disappeared

Above the clouds.

To dream,

As dreamers often do,

Of breaking free

From comfort’s chains,

And striding on a fragile soil

Leaving footprints in its wake

 

 

 

 

 

Dr Jimmy

Not many swear an oath and keep their word

But you held it through a lifetime

And stretched it to a way of life.

Husband, father, son and friend

Your family extended to a community

And we sought refuge in your knowledge

In your vitality and wisdom.

Protected against our fear of suffering

We passed our worries on

And you absorbed them

Putting them in a black bag

Within your soul.

At your happiest in the kitchen

Fore-and-aft upon your head

Juggling six pans and assorted dishes

Leaving chaos in your wake

As the radio reeled and Strathspeyed

In the background.

What a talent telly missed.

Or fishing on Menteith

Better still if one up on John Munro!!

Or sitting in the stand at Easter Road

Memories of Stanton and O’Rourke

Or Eddie Turnbull’s quip to Alan Gordon

"Your problem is that aw yir brains are in yir bloody heed"

Or treating Georgie Best for an ‘allergic reaction to alcohol’.

Or sowing seeds on fertile soil

and watching neat rows of  shoots appear

To mark the start of another year.

You loved the challenge of  a diagnosis

And would treat the person not the illness

Long before it became fashionable.

Medical books and magazines

Would scatter on the floor

As you set about a problem

Like a terrier would a bone.

And in days of greed and envy

Where some work only for reward

You were driven by a duty that few can understand

Needing no more recognition

Than a welcome in the street.

With your hustle-bustle action

And your hair stuck up on end

You brought light to any room

Upon which you might descend

There are words that might describe you

Caring, selfless, teacher, ‘Doc’ and fan

Professional physician or a couthy countryman

But words can never capture

The essence of the man

We knew as Doctor Jimmy

Husband, father, son and friend.

                                               In memory of my father Dr Jimmy Ledingham 

 

 

 

 

 

Drystanes

A black line snakes over the hill,

Sheltering a thin ribbon of white,

Fractured only when it turns to the sun.

Like a child's colouring book,

It marks an outline to be filled,

With the hues of the farming year.

One man's pride from another time,

You can touch a morning's toil,

And wonder at his practised hand.

But we show no deference to its creators,

Too functional to be revered.

The final insult comes in disrepair,

Where it lies trapped between,

Two parallel lines of measured charge.

Perhaps a fitting epitaph after all 

 

 

 

 

 

Elegy for a farmer

The two diggers wait patiently,

Sharing a smoke between their labours,

Grateful for an hours rest,

While the sods lie neatly stacked,

And a green cloth covers their toil.

Friends, file dutifully into the Church,

Or stand outside,

Staring at their thoughts.

Aware of their own mortality,

They bow their heads,

Or clasp a heavy hand behind their backs.

The speakers crackle into silence,

Before the minister's words carry across the valley,

Coming to rest on the distant hillface.

"Our first hymn" hangs in the air.

Breaking into life only at the familiar refrain.

The minister avoids the expected,

And gives us a sermon for the man.

No filling in the gaps here!

"A man with more friends than acquaintances"

He might have left it at that.

Memories are triggered in four hundred heads,

As the man is resurrected by our thoughts.

Who said there's not an after life?

The image breaks as another hymn is sacrificed,

While the minister sings only the notes he can reach.

I watch you carried from the Church.

A last exposure to soft summer air.

The bearers' heels leave their imprint on the grass,

As your life left its on ours,

Trapped now in the past.

Laid down on boards above your slot,

The last rituals are played out.

Lowered hand over hand,

You come to rest,

At peace in your beloved ground.

 

 

 

 

 

Empathy

To step inside another

To step outside yourself

To have the power to project

To be someone other than ‘myself’.

For some it is a short step

For others more a leap

Yet others feel they get there

When all they do is weep.

For many there is comfort

They pretend when others feel

They have pity and sincerity

And say that time will heal.

But I prefer the notion

Much more than words or deed

That it’s more to do with sharing

Much more than hearts’ that bleed.

To celebrate with others

Their victories and success

Is more difficult than pity

If they have more than you possess 

 

 

 

 

 

Evening Restoration

Buttressed walls support a vaulted sky

Frescoed with the Milky Way

Orion, Jupiter and Mars.

As lace-draped moon

Unfolds its velvet mantle

Embracing shadows

With its spectred kiss.

Beneath gigantic gables

The nave falls silent

Blinded by the dark

And passing years

Where time is measured by the lifetimes

Of an acorn planted

By fathers for their sons.

Yet freed from careless feet

It comes once more to life

As tumbled walls rebuild

And altars rise

From plunder and neglect.

Restored to three dimensions

By a star-specked night.

 

 

 

 

 

Exposure

Have you ever stood on deck

And tried to shelter from anxiety’s biting wind,

Broken from routine’s comfort

And felt the stinging spray of isolation?

Or stepped out all but naked

And heard ridicule’s distant thunder,

And lost your way

Forced to walk,

Bent forwards,

Into the gathering storm?

Or weighed anchor

Thinking danger’s squall had passed,

To find yourself alone

As falling pressure banks the fog?

I have stood there,

Stand there,

Times.

Amidst jeopardy’s shifting ice pack.

Confidence floating just above the waves

Self-doubt,

Lurking,

Just below the water line.

 

 

 

 

 

Flying Scotsman

Standing in a row

Over Portobello shunting yard.

Fingers pushed through the wire.

Duffel coats and gloves,

Socks round ankles.

Black,

Everything black.

Pot bellied trains

Spitting steam

Pushing and pulling

Hissing,

Fighting?

Fighting against the tide.

All come to a standstill

As the Flying Scotsman

Flashes under the bridge

And disappears from view

But not from sight. 

 

 

 

 

 

Forth Rail Bridge 

His eye travelled as the crow flies

Stretching from one shore to the next

Fusing the gap within his mind

Short-circuiting the distances

By reaching out his arms

And gifting us the time.

Insatiable, we stuff our pockets

Hoarding it, storing it

Shaping it, shaving it

Squeezing three days into one

Stockpiling the seconds

Higher and higher.

And yet it always wins

By yielding us no interest

And never being cashed.

 

 

 

 

 

Friendly Fire

When setting out

To praise,

To celebrate,

Or glorify,

Take heed, that

From the moment

Words depart your lips,

That they will detonate

On friendly ground,

Unseen, and

Unintentioned,

Leaving casualties

In their wake. 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandfather Clock

TICK..........TOCK..........TICK..........TOCK............TICK...........TOCK............

TOCK..........TICK.............TOCK ............TICK..............VERSES...........ECHO

.............UP...........STAIRS.............SEARCHING ............OUT ..........EVERY

.............ROOM...........FOUND...........ME...........FEIGNING............SLEEP

.............AND WORMED............INTO..........MY..........BRAIN............THE TOCK..........BOOMED...........FROM ITS CAVERNOUS.........CHEST.........

..........AND THE TICK.........FOLLOWED.......AT ITS.............LEISURE... ....

SECONDS.............STRETCHED.............IN MEASURED............SILENCE..

.............AS MY FEET.............SLAP............ON THE COLD.....................

FLOOR...........I  STOOD............ABOVE...........THE  MOONLIT.............. ...........LOBBY................YOUR FORM.............. PRESSED........................ ............AGAINST.............THE WALL.............I TREAD.............WARILY ...............DOWN............THE STEPS............AND PAUSE..........AGAIN......... TO GATHER.................. ...............STRENGTH........ .....................YOUR HEARTBEAT............STOPS.............AS I ................GO BY.............AS CHAINS.............AND SPRINGS...........AND COGS.........RELEASE..........THE HOUR............ STRIKES.............AND BEFORE...............IT FINISHED..........I ...........WAS  BACK.............BETWEEN............THE SHEETS..........TOCK........

TICK...........TOCK ............TICK.............TOCK............TICK............TOCK....

 

 

 

 

 

Half Ploughed Field

Have you ever seen

A half ploughed field.

One half open

The other half sealed.

One half with its guts exposed.

The other silent

Secret

Closed 

 

 

 

 

 

Hayfield

I found a map.

A map where

Rivers never run,

Where tides will never turn.

A map where

Mountains never rise,

Where valleys never fall,

Or cities sprawl.

A map where

Trees will never grow,

Where streams

Will never flow,

But where,

For seven days,

Green waves,

Will break upon a yellow sun

 

 

 

 

 

Heartstrings

Watching the nine o'clock news

Another cause is born.

As cameras seek out

Targets for our compassion

And correspondents compete to set

The most appropriate tone.

Reverential, yet accusing.

Worshipping at the altar of disaster,

They point a finger at our comfort.

And ratings go up another notch.

 

 

 

 

 

High Tide

Release a flight of children’s' feet,

Upon a page of virgin sand.

And watch them tumble, run and leap,

And trace their freedom on borrowed land.

Too busy building memories,

To notice froth tipped fingertips,

Drawing them towards their edge,

Or kissing stones with Judas lips.

Names are dragged beneath the surface,

Ramparts stormed and footprints sifted.

The  blue cloth wipes across the slate,

And serves each one an equal fate.

Reclaiming ground without elation,

High to low..................................a generation

 

 

 

 

 

Homecoming

Whilst seven slept in ragged splendour

I stepped beyond the door

To steal the skylarked dawn

And tread the world underfoot,

But turning back

I found them gone,

Surrendered to the years,

Where wormed beams

Had crashed the sky

Upon the fetid floor.

A rusted nail,

Above the frozen range,

Alone within the empty shell,

Gave life to distant times.

And then I heard them call

Within the chimney breast,

“Who’s there?”

And stepped beyond the door

A second time,

To see them sit and stare

In wide-eyed solemn wisdom,

Before they disappeared

With gentle wings

 

 

 

 

 

Houseprints

The wall on the stair

Is our home’s palmprint.

Old lathe and plaster

Pockmarked by generations

Makes manufactured flatness

Sterile

By comparison.

 

 

 

 

 

Inheritance

He clings to your back

Working his thin fingers deep under your skin

Waiting ‘round every corner

Ready to shame you with you’re luck.

It might have been him.

Visits to the hospital.

Adult conversations cut off.

Mid-sentence.

“Be quiet girl. He needs his sleep”.

No-one heard your screams.

He just faded away

But only in life.

In death he lived on even stronger

Never mentioned.

His place reserved.

You would show them

Just see if you didn’t.

Doing the work of two men

They never saw you.

Too busy with their loss.

And now, trapped by the habits

Of a lifetime.

Proving, proving, proving.

We look on in wonder.

And they loved you all the time

 

 

 

 

 

Johnnie Wilson's Day

My body shaks with unseen tremmles,

Fixed een stare wi'oot relief,

Dinna just stan' there ony longer

Let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil,

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

 "Keep weel wide!"

I'm mindin' fine

Steady man, I ken the way.

Doon.

There, here  nae bother.

Proddin' forards, gently dis it

Lifted weel and a'thegither

Johnnie Wilson, ye'll be pleased as hell.

Help me noo, I cannae see

The straightest path frae here to there.

A coorse auld yin turns, thinks better o' it

And pushes back to find the front.

Steady pace, it's as ye taught me,

Working yin side then the ither.

Yir silent words ring in my heed

We reach the circle wi'oot mishap.

You stand.

I wait.

They graze.

Bide oor time,

Slowly, slowly

A gap appears, it's a' we need.

I'm in it niver had a chance.

Push on noo towards the feenish.

Why does it always have tae end?

Dae yirr pert noo, a final flourish

Just be canny with yon stick!

But they are broken, howked and humled

And any sowel could close a gate.

We've won or so ye tell me,

I'm niver just sure what that means

Ye reach doon and stroke centuries of preparation.

But let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle,

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

                            Johnnie Wilson was a British Sheepdog trial champion.   

 

 

 

 

 

Keeled Over

Rising up from cinnamon sand

The keel slips

From cinnabar

To flush vermilion

Then ochre, oxide red and umber

Its alabaster waterline

Sets off the cobalt glaze

The garter-blue and sapphire

Rising into

Amethyst, lavender and lilac

A livery ignited

By a phosphorous sun 

 

 

 

 

 

Kitchen's Clock 

For Jill’s fortieth

I bought us an old wall clock.

Keeps perfect time

Yet has one erratic chime.

At four strikes nine

At ten rings seven.

Then, Six, Three, One,

Five, Four, Eleven.

Just as a I think I’ve cracked the code

It switches to another mode.

A woman’s clock

After all 

 

 

 

 

 

Lambing 14th March 1999

Disgorged to mother’s nithered earth

His comfort bursts and splits

The oozing form ripped by

Wind’s abrasive edge

As soil reaches up to claim its own

Tempting him to sleep, to yield

To take the comfort of the corpse

As frenzied nails fix him to the coffin ground.

And just as howling peace descends

He rudely flies and swings across

The field, cheated from his end

By roughened, caring, careless hands,

Which dress him in a perished skin

And set him on a stamping mother

To live again in Easter’s Resurrection

 

 

 

 

 

Langshaw Echoes

If you go up the Ellwyn

Two miles from the Fairydean

You'll come on an enchanted place

The best I’ve ever seen.

Now stand outside the Smithy House

An close your eyes and listen

You'll hear the echoes of the past

And all that we've been missing.

You'll hear the water on the wheel

That drove the old sawmill

You'll hear the echoes of the past

I wouldn’t bear them ill.

Now hear the children in the school

All chanting out their tables

And hear the clanking of the team

Returning to their stables.

Now hush you now and hold your peace

What’s that I hear a ringing?

Why it’s the smith at work again

He's seeing to a shoeing.

And hear the cackle from the fields

Sheaves gathered in the sun

The sound of over twenty folk

When now theirs only one.

Now listen to the sqeezebox

To the shouts and awful squeals

The village hall is shaking

To the rhythm of the reels.

And late at night you hear them

As they make their way back home

To Colmslie and Glendearg they trail

Not scared to walk alone.

Now hear the echoes further back

The Reivers and their men

Returning from a battle

They've done their part again.

The building of the towers

Rings out across the land

Each blessed stone they put in place

Was lifted up by hand.

There are some who say that echoes

Are really best forgot

That life is for the here and now

And to settle for your lot.

But I would just remind us

Not to live our lives so fast

For the noise we make today

Will join the echoes of the past.

 

 

 

 

 

Last of the Blackies

Gently tilt a hillside,

And pour its vintage at our feet.

Shake free the stubborn drops,

Which try to hold their place

Amongst their own,

But gather speed

And bunch and rush

The narrowed neck,

To spill upon the floor,

Leaving us to smash

The empty bottle

On stony ground. 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaderfoot Lady

I watch her through December trees

Her straight lines and perfect curves

Entwine with nature's random pattern

She lifts her skirt well clear

And dips her toes

In the cool black water

Her amber stones soften in the sun

Like tears in an empty wine glass

And melt into their reflection

Leaving her pathway in the sky

To wither on the vine

A monument to Beeching's folly

 

 

 

 

 

Leap of Faith

A long legged hare

Running in the sun

Stopped and smiled

Twitched its ears

And in an easy bound

Leapt the stone built wall.

   

Forty feet down

Prostrate on the concrete floor

It lay

As if transfixed

Mid-Jump

Staining the dried bed

With its afterglow

 

 

 

 

 

Long Lost

An empty handshake

Held too long

Fills the void

Of twenty years indifference.

Memories squeezed dry by time

Flicker briefly in stilted conversation

As we measure ourselves

Against our past.

We know the secret code

The subtle clues that

Mark out our achievements

And hide our disappointments.

Neither of us listens to the other

Too busy keeping score

Until the winner strikes

The winning blow 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lost Fountain Pen

Gold nibbed

Blue enamelled

‘Parker’

Made to measure

For a hand.

Gave signature

Some style.

Yet a Biro

Wrote these

Lines.

 

 

 

 

 

Luck

Turn a mirror on itself

And draw your focus to a point.

A soundless endless echo

Which vanishes from sight.

   

And so we lift them from their hills

And pack them in their pen

These living single summers

Single summers without end.

   

See the noble and the haughty

Amongst the rabble and the dregs

The blue blood of the princess

Beside the bent and bowdy legged.

   

So will you take my luck sir?

I have a polished penny here

Polished by our lifetimes

Polished by our fear.

 

 

 

 

 

Monica

You celebrated your 40th birthday last week

So I heard

At home with your mother

She brings you breakfast in bed

And sets your clothes out on a chair

Jerked out of the groove at 19

By a corner that came too soon

The bus collects you every morning

And you wave goodbye as you step aboard

Wiping mist from the glass

But seeing only with your eyes

Your journey stopped long ago

Dreams and ambitions

Replaced by three metal plates.

  

 

 

 

 

 

Old Boots

Supple and forgiving

They caress the ground,

Beaten into shape

By craftsmen of the Cairngorms.

The Lairig Ghru,

Ben Ledi and The Cobbler,

Glens and Bens,

Corries and ridges,

High Level passes

Grip scrubbed smooth

By mileage unclocked.

 

 

 

 

 

Outwintering

The white tide cuts across the hill

And marks a different world

Which freezes to the touch.

A sky which sharpens to a point,

A surface scraped by bitter blast,

And there,

Ignoring with a wary eye,

Stood the frost-backed beast.

   

His burnished chest,

Reflects against the glare

And makes meaning,

Of magnificent,

With shoulders bursting

Through their hide,

As he lugs his heavy burden

Towards his chosen one.

   

A red-roan seven-seasoned mother,

Who thrives where others perish

Has stood the test of time

And readies for her chore.

To take his weight,

To take his seed,

To take his life.

 

 

 

 

 

Photographer's Curse

Beddit in ma comfy grund

Chowin’ on ma dreams

I spied ye wi ma half shut ee

An’ heard yer pechs and groans.

As on ye struggl’t up ma hill

An’ heft up oan yer back

A monster wi three legs or mair

Came climbin’ oot yer sack.

A many splindered whirligig

It danced upon the rocks

Until ye got the better o’ it

An’ tied it doon wi blocks

The horny-goloch wisnae beat

Its legs it push’d an’ sprouted

An’ afore I even kent ma’sel

I had hupped and shouted.

But as the sun began to rise

It clutched ye tae its breest

Despite ma warnings and ma cries

It wis aboot tae feast.

So up I stotted tae yer aid

I couldnae tak nae mair

An’ looked the beastie in the eye

An’ gied ma cauldest stare.

But whit a stramash did ye stir

Ye shouted, screamed and cried

An’ then ye picked a muckle stane

An’ at ma heid ye shied.

Weel patience din I charged ye baith

It folded wi’ a shunt

An’ you ye graceless donnert man

Went fleein’ wi a dunt.

An’ galloped aff wi scittered shanks

Yer breek arse at yer ankles

Wi’oot a single word o’ thanks

As the monster lay in fankles.

 

 

 

 

 

Picture Book Mind

On a cold, wet Sunday afternoon

He travelled thousands of miles and hundreds of years.

Flitting through time and space as boredom dictated,

Taking on existences as he pleased,

While his eyes never betrayed the truth.

His bed could change, chameleon-like,

From a starship to a stage-coach,

From a bus to a battle-cruiser.

And each time he would play his part

Under the directions of his picture book mind.

He could kill with a smile on his face,

Or crumple on the floor,

Clutching his bloody chest with a silent scream.

While his brother conjured his own backdrop to every scene,

Switching from ally to foe without suggestion,

Happy to die with a peanut butter sandwich in his hand.

How I envy them their freedom,

Their untutored ability,

To step beyond the narrow boundaries of reality.

Untroubled by the false dignity of common sense.

Enjoy it while you can my sons,

Education,

Is lying in wait!

 

 

 

 

 

Ploughing the Meadow

They ploughed over the meadow today

A Dowdeswell five furrow reversible plough

Passed back and forth

Executing a thoughtlessly good job

Turning under a summer's roll call

Smooth stalked meadow grass

Fescue, Common Bent and Foxtail

Sweet Vernal, Burnet Saxifrage

Speedwell,Tormentil and Buttercup

A palette of names, entombed

And this evening I watched a Barn Owl

Drift ghost-like across the sterile ground

Quartering again and again, deceived

By a landscape betrayed

 

 

 

 

 

Poems in a High Walled Garden

She sipped her lemon tea

Within a high walled garden,

Beneath a perfect square of sky

Breached only by occasional clouds or sliding gulls.

Her roses, sacrificed themselves upon the walls,

Reaching upwards to their freedom

Until they lost their grasp towards the top,

Their blood-red bodies falling back, spread-eagled on the wire.

Relentless shadows crept across the ground,

Shrinking, squeezing, pressing out the flowers from her space.

And throughout - despite the darkness carving out the light,

She made the most of every colour, of every scent and every sense.

As single lines were drawn up,

From deep within a hidden source,

And linked together in endless chains

To lift her far beyond this place.

She could raise a sonnet from a page,

Hold it gently in her hands before releasing it to freedom

To fly and soar beyond her sight,

These pictures grew and filled the void.

Her garden never died, never fell to winter.

The high walled garden became her paradise,

A refuge, where her four score years and four

Gave way to the reality of her mind,

Where roamed a woman - in the height of summer.

 

 

 

 

 

Pointer - still life

His speed dances to a stop

As he zeroes on the scent.

Yet his stillness has more power

Than his flight.

And just as shade shows up the light,

As winter makes the spring,

His frozen stride

Holds us,

And our imaginations,

For a brief,

Exquisite,

Moment,

And we forget ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

Pylon

Held fast in a geometric stance,

You treat us with disdain,

Too intent upon your task,

As your reflections telescope into the distance.

A roller coaster from the unknown.

Sharing our space as an uninvited guest,

As a guardian of others' progress,

You resonate a note of discord,

As our lifeblood passes through your veins.

Yet still you are despised!

Borrowing the dimensions of an ancient oak,

You reject the seasons,

Untroubled by their Rhythm,

Preferring instead perpetual winter,

And the bare bones of a skeletal form.

A slave to the logic of supply and demand,

You follow orders without question,

Confident in your conformity.

And, if threatened,

You'd pull your jackboots from the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

Raindrops

Clinging for its life,   

It grew slowly,

A window on the world

Before gathering itself,

To fly an instant

Only to burst,

Upon the smooth stone.

Clinging for its life,

It grew slowly,

A window on the world.

Before gathering itself,

To fly an instant.          

Only to burst,

Upon the smooth stone.

Clinging for its life.........

 

 

 

 

 

Reflections on a weighting sky

Let me roll

My line upon

A Black pearled sky

To catch my passage

From timeless depths.

And let me

Cast my mind

To float upon

The gold,

Tempting memories to bite,

To take them,

Taste them,

Just once more,

Before,

Returning them,

Unharmed,

To a weighting sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Roofless church

Black jagged stars

Burst the leaded glass

As pigeons stain the pews

And darkness fills the void.

   

Shattered Slates

Expose the blackened beams

Growing grass at fifty feet

And darkness fills the void

   

Graffiti screams

Its thoughtless filth

Whilst litter dances at the door

And darkness fills the void

   

All for the convenience

Of a faith without a home

A faith without a fee

And darkness fills the void

 

 

 

 

 

Baby Scan

A shape lies heavy in the sac,

As silence echoes 'round magnolia walls.

Images, traced radar-like

Search the lifeless fog.

No happy pointing to head and feet.

No sideshow this!

Passed on up the line.

And with each aching minute

More certainty.

Hopes, plans, future.

Ours or his?

Fade....................

 

 

 

 

 

Scott's View

Stared out. Abused by casual eyes

Which flick through pages

With coffee table minds.

We taste but never swallow

Spitting snapshots

In long to be forgotten

Books. Ticking lists

And moving on before we stop.

   

Here?

From where before his grave

Two horses held his gaze

In patient pause, to recollect

The man where dreams of legend

Came alive. Before they felt time’s whip

And left to pull his shell

On, and into, history

   

And so we follow,

Passing time in shallow worship

Wearing out the land

With reckless gape

Taking comfort that we share

A place with him

Before,

Our horses come.

 

 

 

 

 

Scree Walk

Between climb and walk

We scramble,

All fours.

Animals, without the grace,

Searching for firm ground.

As leader’s debris

gently shifts us,

And our steps,

Back down the hill.

Next time,

I’ll stay at home.

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing for ourselves

We ought never forget

The feelings of the many, who

Only judge by the chill

Upon their collars, Nor should we

Stand too close to the edge, when

Warm hands are placed behind our backs, and

Always listen to those who never speak, but

Who shake their heads, when

Others leave the room, alternatively,

Forget them all, and

Have faith in our inner child, who

Sees things as they really are.

 

 

 

 

 

Sentinel

Each November the Fieldfares come

And take up residence in our old apple tree

And each year the apples hold their place

Against the frost and slicing Northern winds

Incongruous inhabitants of a winter scene

Come January the birds have gone, save two

Who hunt each other round the tree

Ignoring rare abundance

They have no time to feed

As senseless rivalry provides no respite

Then one morning a single bird remains

Still chasing it’s departed foe

Whilst clinging remnants of a summer past

Lose patience and throw themselves to earth

To lie beside the rival’s lifeless form.

 

 

 

 

 

Severe Weather Warning

Remember when snow

Kept its secret to itself.

Slipping in through the night

To wake us in the morning,

All white light and silence.

Or through a classroom window

Watching white confetti

Dancing on the breeze.

Wishing it would never stop,

Lessons long forgotten.

Escaping to roll turfs of snow,

A criss-cross of giant snail tracks.

Hands without feeling,

Ice, sliding down your neck.,

Warfare without the blood.

When did it happen?

To feel relief as Christmas snow

Turns to December rain.

Give me back my window

Let it keep its secret to itself.

 

 

 

 

 

She only sees the light

The Cameron Highlands sounded so exotic

To be born in the tropics – a colonial miss

She could have been a proper lady!

The foundation of happiness,

Upon which she built a life,

Proved all too short

And sailing home – alone

She built an imaginary world

Protecting herself by

Always seeing the best

Learning how to sacrifice

Drawing people to her light

Her innocence balanced by her knowing.

She waited for her time

Remembered running on a platform

Holding him in her arms

Feeling his emaciated body

Reunited - a family once more.

Koreen, Alford, Donside

Nursing, dances, army

And somewhere in here a man

A special man

A man who made her whole

Lives and hearts entwined in perfect balance

A wonderful blur

26 Duddingston Crescent, Windyridge

Housewife, receptionist, nurse, mother, lover

Multitasking on a grand scale

A Neverland of wondrous memories.

She nurtured her tribe of boys and girl

They grew happy and protected

Yet time takes its toll

The crocodile’s ticking clock

Catches us all

Yet laughter, love and happiness

Drowns out the ticks

From a woman who only sees the light

For my mother Barrie Ledingham (nee Gibson) - who was born in Malaya, 1930 where her father was rubber planter. He was captured by the Japanese and spent the war in Changi Jail. She was named after J. M Barrie who wrote Peter Pan.

 

 

Summer's Day in February

The rain bounced on the hay shed roof,
Drumming tunes on the corrugated iron,
Before it filled the folds,
And dropped to the ground in an ragged curtain.
I listened to the rain music,

And watched the sky sit heavy on its hunkers.
Holding down the distant hills.
Sucking contrast from the fields.
My hand closed on the warm hay.

And twisting a spiral round my fingers,
I pulled it from its bed.
Last year's summer crackled.
And framed between its course and faded stems,

Was held a blood red poppy,
Which crumbled to the touch.
And the rain bounced on the hay shed roof.

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Fox

Distant memories of Sunday kirk

Where you watched my prayers with a knowing smirk.

While proudly draped round a widow's neck

Your glass eye fixed me without a break.

Alone you knew I was a fraud

Ma thoughts had never strayed to God.

A wisdom that a came to fear.

That,

And your crooked,

Sleekit,

Leer.

 

 

 

 

 

Swansong

Land locked

By freezing fingers

Crossing ground

Where waters once had whispered

Now silk smooth

And sculpted

Burnished black

Glossed and glazed

Softly squeezing

With Heavy hands

Which quietly close

Upon the  song.

 

 

 

 

 

Swilken Burn Bridge

Where Old Tom Morris stood and took a line of sight

Towards an unimagined time, stands a bridge

Which spans the years and dreams of man.

   

Its keystone bears the weight of echoes

And binds them to the stones,

Which gently rise above the tended calm.

   

Until it comes once more to life.

And takes its rightful place

As a passage from mortality,

   

Lifting those who float across its sweep,

In joyful pandemonium,

To taste fame’s momentary nectar.

   

Or those, like Nicklaus, the Golden Bear,

Who blessed it with his presence

And turned granite into gold.

   

Or Spain’s magician,

A sorcerer who touched our lives

And conjured victories from an empty hand.

   

Or see a place where Tiger prowls

His power launched in peerless grace

Before he crushes breath from man and links alike

   

Yet for some a set of scaffold steps.

A gangplank which drops them from the dizzy heights

In painful public execution.

   

But all build memories for generations,

Scratching marks upon life’s fleeting walls

But losing to a simple stone- built arch,

   

Which takes its comfort that its gateway

Between two different worlds,

Lies beyond the wealth of man.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bricklayer

Lover of straight lines,

You hate your work.

Yet, as if by magic

Lines of rough brown brick

Flow from your hands

And, imperceptibly,

Paper turns into stone,

Trapping space in small boxes.

Before you move on,

Never looking back,

Just another brick in your wall.

 

 

 

 

 

The Clipping

Surrounded by the Cheviots

A soaring sun and diving Peewits

The clipper rigged his gear with a master's expert eye;

Blades sharpened with affection

Each caught a bright reflection

As perfect and as pure as a Curlew's melancholy cry.

The pace was tight and measured

As if each moment treasured

By a man who took his comfort from the magic in his hands;

His skills were years in making

Ten thousand hours back breaking

As a passion grew inside him that no layman understands.

No tricks, no ostentation

No frills, no decoration

Yet the veins upon his trunk-like arms were all but fit to burst;

Shirt soaked with perspiration

Eyes fixed with concentration

As if imprisoned by the talent with which he had been cursed.

He cast each fleece upon the ground

Amidst the unrelenting sound

Of dogs and sheep and buzzing shears, a noise that never left the ears;

His arm found a rhythmic groove

Hypnotic ease to every move

As seconds passed and minutes passed from hours into years.

The day was almost finished

Yet his art was not diminished

By the knowledge that his labours were nearly at an end;

For pride imbued his every action

He could not slacken by a fraction

Addicted to a lifestyle to which there is no mend.

 

 

 

 

 

The Heron

He was there,

Waiting,

I could feel him,

Obsequious,

As his haunted presence

Hunched over his patience.

Waiting,

In his morning tails,

Head dropped his between

His stooping shoulders,

Watching,

Slow in his shadows,

Waiting,

Letting them live their lives,

Carelessly.

Until,

Waiting over,

He fired

And left,

With a scream,

And a smile

On his face.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

I stumbled back nearly sixty years.

As the heady mix of engine oil and leather

Threw me back into the benchseat

Alongside the old farmer.

A giant of a man

As dour as he was big

Who gripped the wheel with massive fists.

And stared out far beyond his field of view.

I knew better than disturb his practised silence

And craned my neck to see over the polished bonnet

Lining up the silver emblem

As my Spitfire's gunsight.

My game and his peace

Were broken by a sickly crack

And in the instant that it hit the glass

I caught its screaming eye.

The old man said nothing

As we rolled to a clumsy halt

And pulled himself stiffly from his seat.

The late evening sun cast his shadow forty feet.

He stooped and lifted the tiny form

Lost in his callused hand

And a fragile tear splashed

Silently on the dusty road.

 

 

 

 

 

The Kick

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

  

Shackled to his rock

He orbits round his chosen hours,

Yet it chose him,

Picked him from the crib

And left him here without a place to go.

   

Yet his ladies wait their turn

And heave their heavy bags

Between their spindled legs,

Suspending from a scaffold frame

Their precious loads,

Which bulge against their swing.

   

Escaping from the gloom,

Their well-chewed breaths

Rise above the biting cold,

And white trickles from a teat

Tracing lazy lines and circles

Amongst the shit slapped floor.

   

He locks into his ritual

And readies for the dance,

Pacing round his pulpit,

Gently laying hands

And tracing daughters back

Some thirty years.

   

A meeting of machines,

One bred, one made,

Each built to fit the other,

Turning green to white,

As pulsing beat of stainless steel

Sucks its greedy fill.

   

He takes his pride from here,

Measuring against the past,

Driven on by need

To prove himself, against himself,

To make his mark upon the land.

   

And yet, not far from here

It lies in sterile lines,

Loss leader for the giants,

Who squeeze pennies from the tit,

And slowly close their careless fingers

Around a way of life.

I heard them call the numbers from the crowd

And each stepped forwards to the edge

To take a plaited, tasseled cord

And lay me gently in my grave.

I’d stood too often in the past

And watched this scene

And watched the soil tossed upon a polished box,

(It sounds much louder from down here)

And then, from far above my head

I heard the pipes begin to play

And slowly lift me from this place.

And standing upright once again

I threw my drones across my shoulder

And matched him note for note.

   

We walked together, happy now

To leave that rotten, rotting body

To feel the joy of freedom

To feel the ground beneath my feet

To feel the wind against my face

To feel the air within my lungs.

We marched a slow march

My kilt swung upon my hips

My fingers caressing every note

He stopped; I didn’t; I couldn’t; I wouldn’t.

Marching on and on

Free to march upon my hill

To take my pipes

And play my tunes at will.

 

 

 

 

 

A Book of Remembrance

Sandwiched between

Ledgerwood-Walker. B.G.

And Lee. A.T.

Is Ledingham. D. J.

So many unknown people

Sharing the same space.

A regiment of L’s

Waiting by their phones. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Child's Hand

Take your child by the hand

And hold the future there.

Keep him upright if you can

Release him if you dare.

Sandwiched between

Ledgerwood-Walker. B.G.

And Lee. A.T.

Is Ledingham. D. J.

So many unknown people

Sharing the same space.

A regiment of L’s

Waiting by their phones. 

 

 

 

Take your child by the hand

And hold the future there.

Keep him upright if you can

Release him if you dare.

 

 

 

 

 

A Poacher's Regret

The torchlight scans the silent surface,

Drawing patterns with its deadly spot.

Its pencil beam slipping through reflections,

Intrudes another world.

As slips of silver belly-up before its path,

Vanishing in puffs of silt,

Or pause a second,

Before they scream beyond detection.

Waving weed, an old pipe and a big black stone,

Each hold the light in turn,

And each stretch a heartbeat,

In false anticipation.

Then, as eyes water with the wind,

Its destined form appears,

The massive shape berths hard against the bank.

Smoothing through the water's edge.

For reasons best known to itself,

Disdain, fatigue or resignation?

It lies untroubled by the light,

As instinct drives it on.

To travel oceans on an ageless trip,

It had surely left all dangers far behind.

Yet sliding in beyond its sight,

An arm extends the stainless hook.

Its body gently waves,

As the point draws level with its gills,

And in a fatal instant,

I feel its weight. 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

A Pound of Flesh

“I’ll take a pound”

“A pound?”

“A pound” he said.

“Now take this tree”.

I held the first of many.

And listened to living memories

To opinions and judgement

Recollection and principle.

I never thought to interrupt his flow.

He didn’t need me.

Fighting in the jungle

Burma to the Borders.

Trees, Churchill, Hiroshima

Atlantic crossings, dairies, Reivers,

Clydesdales, Reich and home.

Somewhere, deep inside

There lurked a tap.

It flowed.

Seventy years of human experience

Unedited

But seen only from one window.

And yet

A pound well spent.

This poem recounts the first time I met Haig Douglas.  I simply asked him if I could walk my dog on his land.  Haig Douglas was a member of the famous Border family of the same name. He farmed at Glendearg for over forty years and took a particular interest in tree planting and local history.  He fought in the jungle campaigns during the Second World War and never took a backward step in his life.  Haig Douglas died in 1998.

Bare,

Bones,

Monochrome,

Stripped lines,

Which only come alive

Within the mind.

Growing there

Like seeds,

Which flourish

Despite neglect

And stony ground 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Address Book

Looking for a number

Amongst the couples.

All neatly stacked,

In alphabetical order,

I saw some names,

Some single names.

Cut off from their partners

By a bold black line.

Gone,

Just like that,

One by one,

Picked off by the years. 

 

 

 

 

 

After the Rabbit Shoot

It held my eye

Meeting me in silent witness

Distorting my reflection

With its unyielding stare

   

It forced my hand

Leaving me without an option

And I closed its window on the world

Before it got too close.

Looking for a number

Amongst the couples.

All neatly stacked,

In alphabetical order,

I saw some names,

Some single names.

Cut off from their partners

By a bold black line.

Gone,

Just like that,

One by one,

Picked off by the years. 

 

 

 

 

 

After the Rabbit Shoot

It held my eye

Meeting me in silent witness

Distorting my reflection

With its unyielding stare

   

It forced my hand

Leaving me without an option

And I closed its window on the world

Before it got too close.

It held my eye

Meeting me in silent witness

Distorting my reflection

With its unyielding stare

   

It forced my hand

Leaving me without an option

And I closed its window on the world

Before it got too close.

Cold shadows grow their silhouette

Against a waking sky

As monochrome surrenders to the dawn

And sandstone embers flicker into life.

Flat sunbeams scream across the ground

To sacrifice themselves

Against the stubborn walls.

Their orange fire explodes upon the eye

And leave their imprint on the mind

Long after walls have turned back to stone

And daylight's cutting edge departs. 

 

 

 

 

 

Black Tie

Amongst the silks and paisley patterns

The dicky bows and shepherd’s tartans

The checks and asymmetric lines

The emblems of forgotten times.

There lurks a dark oppressive presence.

It beat me to the finish of this poem.

Returned to the back of the wardrobe

I catch the occasional glimpse in the morning

And hope it bides its time. 

 

 

 

 

 

Boundaries

Submerging silhouettes

Their rotting half made whole

By calm reflections

Support their rusted barbs

Which twist and intertwine

In sad, demented lines

An edge no more

They fight to keep their hold

To save their kind

Or have they,

With purpose lost

Simply waded to their end

As water and the land

Reclaim their liberty

By biding time.

Amongst the silks and paisley patterns

The dicky bows and shepherd’s tartans

The checks and asymmetric lines

The emblems of forgotten times.

There lurks a dark oppressive presence.

It beat me to the finish of this poem.

Returned to the back of the wardrobe

I catch the occasional glimpse in the morning

And hope it bides its time. 

 

 

 

 

 

Boundaries

Submerging silhouettes

Their rotting half made whole

By calm reflections

Support their rusted barbs

Which twist and intertwine

In sad, demented lines

An edge no more

They fight to keep their hold

To save their kind

Or have they,

With purpose lost

Simply waded to their end

As water and the land

Reclaim their liberty

By biding time.

Submerging silhouettes

Their rotting half made whole

By calm reflections

Support their rusted barbs

Which twist and intertwine

In sad, demented lines

An edge no more

They fight to keep their hold

To save their kind

Or have they,

With purpose lost

Simply waded to their end

As water and the land

Reclaim their liberty

By biding time.

Sweeping to the surface

From galactic depths

Two hundred years boil, twist and spiral

Their currents splitting

On giant boulders

Surging, swelling

Flash flooding

Carving deep valleys

Which open onto plains

Smoothing into eddies

Backwaters, rivulets

As deep pools

Of timelessness

Becalm their flow

An instant,

Or lifetime? 

 

 

 

 

 

Button Jar

There they found it,

Where she’d left it,

Tucked behind the tins and jars.

A lifetime held within a moment,

A secret trove,

They dare not open.

Buttons cut from every garment,

He had worn throughout their union,

Simple shirts to army greatcoats,

Brass and bone and wood and leather,

Each one held a magic measure,

Provided her a priceless treasure.

Now she’s gone,

They’ve lost their lustre.

The thread is broken,

Disconnected,

Partial stories,

Recollected,

Cannot fill the button jar 

 

 

 

 

 

Shoveling memories

The North Atlantic swallowed them whole

Covering their tracks with freezing fog

Whilst deep beneath the waterline he prayed

Shoveling coal to push them home.

They felt the presence of the wolves

And huddled close as if for warmth

Whilst terrored eyes scanned the careless sea

And still he shoveled his inferno.

They saw the wake too late

And screamed their pointless warning.

It broke in two - BROKE IN TWO!

21,000 tonnes and 600 men.

And every Sunday afternoon

He comes here to feed the ducks

And shovel memories

To the back of his mind 

 

 

 

 

 

Cotswold Stone

Honeyed

Smooth

Perfection

But churchyard

Names

Dissolve

Before your eyes

A surface -

Reclaimed 

There they found it,

Where she’d left it,

Tucked behind the tins and jars.

A lifetime held within a moment,

A secret trove,

They dare not open.

Buttons cut from every garment,

He had worn throughout their union,

Simple shirts to army greatcoats,

Brass and bone and wood and leather,

Each one held a magic measure,

Provided her a priceless treasure.

Now she’s gone,

They’ve lost their lustre.

The thread is broken,

Disconnected,

Partial stories,

Recollected,

Cannot fill the button jar 

 

 

 

 

 

Shoveling memories

The North Atlantic swallowed them whole

Covering their tracks with freezing fog

Whilst deep beneath the waterline he prayed

Shoveling coal to push them home.

They felt the presence of the wolves

And huddled close as if for warmth

Whilst terrored eyes scanned the careless sea

And still he shoveled his inferno.

They saw the wake too late

And screamed their pointless warning.

It broke in two - BROKE IN TWO!

21,000 tonnes and 600 men.

And every Sunday afternoon

He comes here to feed the ducks

And shovel memories

To the back of his mind 

The North Atlantic swallowed them whole

Covering their tracks with freezing fog

Whilst deep beneath the waterline he prayed

Shoveling coal to push them home.

They felt the presence of the wolves

And huddled close as if for warmth

Whilst terrored eyes scanned the careless sea

And still he shoveled his inferno.

They saw the wake too late

And screamed their pointless warning.

It broke in two - BROKE IN TWO!

21,000 tonnes and 600 men.

And every Sunday afternoon

He comes here to feed the ducks

And shovel memories

To the back of his mind 

Honeyed

Smooth

Perfection

But churchyard

Names

Dissolve

Before your eyes

A surface -

Reclaimed 

Black minims,

Crotchets and quavers,

Eight birds to a bar.

The five line stave sags heavy with their weight,

As three semi tones and an A sharp,

Change places.

Before melody takes off into

Flights of

Pandemonium 

 

 

 

 

 

Crow Trap

Abandoned to its savage task

The fleshless carcass,

A skeleton of death,

Awaits in shamed seclusion.

Its tortured beams

Treat gravity and symmetry

As twin impostors

And build false shelter

Deep within the moor.

It draws eccentric wing-beats

To its vortex

With stench of rotting flesh

And envy at an other’s fortune.

An ironic perch

Bathed in fleeting sunshine

Gives little hint

Of terrors held within.

Inside, a black whirlwind

Thrashes against the wire

In frenzied replay

Tempted by the free horizon

And a towering sky.

Until released by man

Who throws its neck

Without a thought

And drops it to the ground.

Free at last. 

Abandoned to its savage task

The fleshless carcass,

A skeleton of death,

Awaits in shamed seclusion.

Its tortured beams

Treat gravity and symmetry

As twin impostors

And build false shelter

Deep within the moor.

It draws eccentric wing-beats

To its vortex

With stench of rotting flesh

And envy at an other’s fortune.

An ironic perch

Bathed in fleeting sunshine

Gives little hint

Of terrors held within.

Inside, a black whirlwind

Thrashes against the wire

In frenzied replay

Tempted by the free horizon

And a towering sky.

Until released by man

Who throws its neck

Without a thought

And drops it to the ground.

Free at last. 

Beware!

Bitterness,

Can foul your soul.

Its brackish taste

Lends acrid flavour

To the sweetest dish.

Twisting smile to sneer

To feed off

Blame and scorn,

As envy and contempt,

Infecting with their bile,

Give jaundiced eyes their proof.

Until,

It turns on itself.

And eats us from within

Words,

Parked passively

In ordered ranks.

Bombs without warheads.

Needing only

Juxtaposition

To give them life. 

 

 

 

 

 

DL + GL 82-07

You found our letters

Cut deep, bottomless,

Felt them smooth against the rough bark,

Traced your finger over our years

Closed your eyes and followed the lines.

Imagining these people, us people

Who etched our mark here, momentarily,

Strangers, intruding on your space

Reaching forwards to ask our question

Our uncomfortable truth

Whose lovers vow, proclaimed here

In boastful anonymity

Carves itself upon your mind

 

 

 

 

 

Doorway on the past

There is a door in our house.

I stripped it bare,

One wet Sunday afternoon.

Written, up-side down,

In the bottom left hand corner,

Was a message.

“Remember to feed the horses”

It’s still there,

Under ‘Sunburst Yellow Satin Gloss’

You found our letters

Cut deep, bottomless,

Felt them smooth against the rough bark,

Traced your finger over our years

Closed your eyes and followed the lines.

Imagining these people, us people

Who etched our mark here, momentarily,

Strangers, intruding on your space

Reaching forwards to ask our question

Our uncomfortable truth

Whose lovers vow, proclaimed here

In boastful anonymity

Carves itself upon your mind

 

 

 

 

 

Doorway on the past

There is a door in our house.

I stripped it bare,

One wet Sunday afternoon.

Written, up-side down,

In the bottom left hand corner,

Was a message.

“Remember to feed the horses”

It’s still there,

Under ‘Sunburst Yellow Satin Gloss’

Make no sense.

For function is not served

By rolling to the middle,

Wrestled sheets,

Flatulence,

Or snores.

Yet husbands

Feel abandoned

At the threat

Of single beds.

With no-one watching,

It shouldered through

The grudging ground.

Thrusting up from deep

Within the Earth

An instant spire,

Which pierced the sky

At perfect angles,

And disappeared

Above the clouds.

To dream,

As dreamers often do,

Of breaking free

From comfort’s chains,

And striding on a fragile soil

Leaving footprints in its wake

 

 

 

 

 

Dr Jimmy

Not many swear an oath and keep their word

But you held it through a lifetime

And stretched it to a way of life.

Husband, father, son and friend

Your family extended to a community

And we sought refuge in your knowledge

In your vitality and wisdom.

Protected against our fear of suffering

We passed our worries on

And you absorbed them

Putting them in a black bag

Within your soul.

At your happiest in the kitchen

Fore-and-aft upon your head

Juggling six pans and assorted dishes

Leaving chaos in your wake

As the radio reeled and Strathspeyed

In the background.

What a talent telly missed.

Or fishing on Menteith

Better still if one up on John Munro!!

Or sitting in the stand at Easter Road

Memories of Stanton and O’Rourke

Or Eddie Turnbull’s quip to Alan Gordon

"Your problem is that aw yir brains are in yir bloody heed"

Or treating Georgie Best for an ‘allergic reaction to alcohol’.

Or sowing seeds on fertile soil

and watching neat rows of  shoots appear

To mark the start of another year.

You loved the challenge of  a diagnosis

And would treat the person not the illness

Long before it became fashionable.

Medical books and magazines

Would scatter on the floor

As you set about a problem

Like a terrier would a bone.

And in days of greed and envy

Where some work only for reward

You were driven by a duty that few can understand

Needing no more recognition

Than a welcome in the street.

With your hustle-bustle action

And your hair stuck up on end

You brought light to any room

Upon which you might descend

There are words that might describe you

Caring, selfless, teacher, ‘Doc’ and fan

Professional physician or a couthy countryman

But words can never capture

The essence of the man

We knew as Doctor Jimmy

Husband, father, son and friend.

                                               In memory of my father Dr Jimmy Ledingham 

Not many swear an oath and keep their word

But you held it through a lifetime

And stretched it to a way of life.

Husband, father, son and friend

Your family extended to a community

And we sought refuge in your knowledge

In your vitality and wisdom.

Protected against our fear of suffering

We passed our worries on

And you absorbed them

Putting them in a black bag

Within your soul.

At your happiest in the kitchen

Fore-and-aft upon your head

Juggling six pans and assorted dishes

Leaving chaos in your wake

As the radio reeled and Strathspeyed

In the background.

What a talent telly missed.

Or fishing on Menteith

Better still if one up on John Munro!!

Or sitting in the stand at Easter Road

Memories of Stanton and O’Rourke

Or Eddie Turnbull’s quip to Alan Gordon

"Your problem is that aw yir brains are in yir bloody heed"

Or treating Georgie Best for an ‘allergic reaction to alcohol’.

Or sowing seeds on fertile soil

and watching neat rows of  shoots appear

To mark the start of another year.

You loved the challenge of  a diagnosis

And would treat the person not the illness

Long before it became fashionable.

Medical books and magazines

Would scatter on the floor

As you set about a problem

Like a terrier would a bone.

And in days of greed and envy

Where some work only for reward

You were driven by a duty that few can understand

Needing no more recognition

Than a welcome in the street.

With your hustle-bustle action

And your hair stuck up on end

You brought light to any room

Upon which you might descend

There are words that might describe you

Caring, selfless, teacher, ‘Doc’ and fan

Professional physician or a couthy countryman

But words can never capture

The essence of the man

We knew as Doctor Jimmy

Husband, father, son and friend.

                                               In memory of my father Dr Jimmy Ledingham 

 

 

 

 

 

Elegy for a farmer

The two diggers wait patiently,

Sharing a smoke between their labours,

Grateful for an hours rest,

While the sods lie neatly stacked,

And a green cloth covers their toil.

Friends, file dutifully into the Church,

Or stand outside,

Staring at their thoughts.

Aware of their own mortality,

They bow their heads,

Or clasp a heavy hand behind their backs.

The speakers crackle into silence,

Before the minister's words carry across the valley,

Coming to rest on the distant hillface.

"Our first hymn" hangs in the air.

Breaking into life only at the familiar refrain.

The minister avoids the expected,

And gives us a sermon for the man.

No filling in the gaps here!

"A man with more friends than acquaintances"

He might have left it at that.

Memories are triggered in four hundred heads,

As the man is resurrected by our thoughts.

Who said there's not an after life?

The image breaks as another hymn is sacrificed,

While the minister sings only the notes he can reach.

I watch you carried from the Church.

A last exposure to soft summer air.

The bearers' heels leave their imprint on the grass,

As your life left its on ours,

Trapped now in the past.

Laid down on boards above your slot,

The last rituals are played out.

Lowered hand over hand,

You come to rest,

At peace in your beloved ground.

 

 

 

 

 

Empathy

To step inside another

To step outside yourself

To have the power to project

To be someone other than ‘myself’.

For some it is a short step

For others more a leap

Yet others feel they get there

When all they do is weep.

For many there is comfort

They pretend when others feel

They have pity and sincerity

And say that time will heal.

But I prefer the notion

Much more than words or deed

That it’s more to do with sharing

Much more than hearts’ that bleed.

To celebrate with others

Their victories and success

Is more difficult than pity

If they have more than you possess 

 

 

 

 

 

Empathy

To step inside another

To step outside yourself

To have the power to project

To be someone other than ‘myself’.

For some it is a short step

For others more a leap

Yet others feel they get there

When all they do is weep.

For many there is comfort

They pretend when others feel

They have pity and sincerity

And say that time will heal.

But I prefer the notion

Much more than words or deed

That it’s more to do with sharing

Much more than hearts’ that bleed.

To celebrate with others

Their victories and success

Is more difficult than pity

If they have more than you possess 

 

 

 

 

 

Evening Restoration

Buttressed walls support a vaulted sky

Frescoed with the Milky Way

Orion, Jupiter and Mars.

As lace-draped moon

Unfolds its velvet mantle

Embracing shadows

With its spectred kiss.

Beneath gigantic gables

The nave falls silent

Blinded by the dark

And passing years

Where time is measured by the lifetimes

Of an acorn planted

By fathers for their sons.

Yet freed from careless feet

It comes once more to life

As tumbled walls rebuild

And altars rise

From plunder and neglect.

Restored to three dimensions

By a star-specked night.

 

 

 

 

 

Evening Restoration

Buttressed walls support a vaulted sky

Frescoed with the Milky Way

Orion, Jupiter and Mars.

As lace-draped moon

Unfolds its velvet mantle

Embracing shadows

With its spectred kiss.

Beneath gigantic gables

The nave falls silent

Blinded by the dark

And passing years

Where time is measured by the lifetimes

Of an acorn planted

By fathers for their sons.

Yet freed from careless feet

It comes once more to life

As tumbled walls rebuild

And altars rise

From plunder and neglect.

Restored to three dimensions

By a star-specked night.

Buttressed walls support a vaulted sky

Frescoed with the Milky Way

Orion, Jupiter and Mars.

As lace-draped moon

Unfolds its velvet mantle

Embracing shadows

With its spectred kiss.

Beneath gigantic gables

The nave falls silent

Blinded by the dark

And passing years

Where time is measured by the lifetimes

Of an acorn planted

By fathers for their sons.

Yet freed from careless feet

It comes once more to life

As tumbled walls rebuild

And altars rise

From plunder and neglect.

Restored to three dimensions

By a star-specked night.

 

 

 

 

 

Flying Scotsman

Standing in a row

Over Portobello shunting yard.

Fingers pushed through the wire.

Duffel coats and gloves,

Socks round ankles.

Black,

Everything black.

Pot bellied trains

Spitting steam

Pushing and pulling

Hissing,

Fighting?

Fighting against the tide.

All come to a standstill

As the Flying Scotsman

Flashes under the bridge

And disappears from view

But not from sight. 

 

 

 

 

 

Forth Rail Bridge 

His eye travelled as the crow flies

Stretching from one shore to the next

Fusing the gap within his mind

Short-circuiting the distances

By reaching out his arms

And gifting us the time.

Insatiable, we stuff our pockets

Hoarding it, storing it

Shaping it, shaving it

Squeezing three days into one

Stockpiling the seconds

Higher and higher.

And yet it always wins

By yielding us no interest

And never being cashed.

 

 

 

 

 

Friendly Fire

When setting out

To praise,

To celebrate,

Or glorify,

Take heed, that

From the moment

Words depart your lips,

That they will detonate

On friendly ground,

Unseen, and

Unintentioned,

Leaving casualties

In their wake. 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandfather Clock

TICK..........TOCK..........TICK..........TOCK............TICK...........TOCK............

TOCK..........TICK.............TOCK ............TICK..............VERSES...........ECHO

.............UP...........STAIRS.............SEARCHING ............OUT ..........EVERY

.............ROOM...........FOUND...........ME...........FEIGNING............SLEEP

.............AND WORMED............INTO..........MY..........BRAIN............THE TOCK..........BOOMED...........FROM ITS CAVERNOUS.........CHEST.........

..........AND THE TICK.........FOLLOWED.......AT ITS.............LEISURE... ....

SECONDS.............STRETCHED.............IN MEASURED............SILENCE..

.............AS MY FEET.............SLAP............ON THE COLD.....................

FLOOR...........I  STOOD............ABOVE...........THE  MOONLIT.............. ...........LOBBY................YOUR FORM.............. PRESSED........................ ............AGAINST.............THE WALL.............I TREAD.............WARILY ...............DOWN............THE STEPS............AND PAUSE..........AGAIN......... TO GATHER.................. ...............STRENGTH........ .....................YOUR HEARTBEAT............STOPS.............AS I ................GO BY.............AS CHAINS.............AND SPRINGS...........AND COGS.........RELEASE..........THE HOUR............ STRIKES.............AND BEFORE...............IT FINISHED..........I ...........WAS  BACK.............BETWEEN............THE SHEETS..........TOCK........

TICK...........TOCK ............TICK.............TOCK............TICK............TOCK....

 

 

 

 

 

Half Ploughed Field

Have you ever seen

A half ploughed field.

One half open

The other half sealed.

One half with its guts exposed.

The other silent

Secret

Closed 

 

 

 

 

 

Hayfield

I found a map.

A map where

Rivers never run,

Where tides will never turn.

A map where

Mountains never rise,

Where valleys never fall,

Or cities sprawl.

A map where

Trees will never grow,

Where streams

Will never flow,

But where,

For seven days,

Green waves,

Will break upon a yellow sun

Standing in a row

 

 

 

 

 

Forth Rail Bridge 

His eye travelled as the crow flies

Stretching from one shore to the next

Fusing the gap within his mind

Short-circuiting the distances

By reaching out his arms

And gifting us the time.

Insatiable, we stuff our pockets

Hoarding it, storing it

Shaping it, shaving it

Squeezing three days into one

Stockpiling the seconds

Higher and higher.

And yet it always wins

By yielding us no interest

And never being cashed.

 

 

 

 

 

Friendly Fire

When setting out

To praise,

To celebrate,

Or glorify,

Take heed, that

From the moment

Words depart your lips,

That they will detonate

On friendly ground,

Unseen, and

Unintentioned,

Leaving casualties

In their wake. 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandfather Clock

TICK..........TOCK..........TICK..........TOCK............TICK...........TOCK............

TOCK..........TICK.............TOCK ............TICK..............VERSES...........ECHO

.............UP...........STAIRS.............SEARCHING ............OUT ..........EVERY

.............ROOM...........FOUND...........ME...........FEIGNING............SLEEP

.............AND WORMED............INTO..........MY..........BRAIN............THE TOCK..........BOOMED...........FROM ITS CAVERNOUS.........CHEST.........

..........AND THE TICK.........FOLLOWED.......AT ITS.............LEISURE... ....

SECONDS.............STRETCHED.............IN MEASURED............SILENCE..

.............AS MY FEET.............SLAP............ON THE COLD.....................

FLOOR...........I  STOOD............ABOVE...........THE  MOONLIT.............. ...........LOBBY................YOUR FORM.............. PRESSED........................ ............AGAINST.............THE WALL.............I TREAD.............WARILY ...............DOWN............THE STEPS............AND PAUSE..........AGAIN......... TO GATHER.................. ...............STRENGTH........ .....................YOUR HEARTBEAT............STOPS.............AS I ................GO BY.............AS CHAINS.............AND SPRINGS...........AND COGS.........RELEASE..........THE HOUR............ STRIKES.............AND BEFORE...............IT FINISHED..........I ...........WAS  BACK.............BETWEEN............THE SHEETS..........TOCK........

TICK...........TOCK ............TICK.............TOCK............TICK............TOCK....

 

 

 

 

 

Half Ploughed Field

Have you ever seen

A half ploughed field.

One half open

The other half sealed.

One half with its guts exposed.

The other silent

Secret

Closed 

When setting out

To praise,

To celebrate,

Or glorify,

Take heed, that

From the moment

Words depart your lips,

That they will detonate

On friendly ground,

Unseen, and

Unintentioned,

Leaving casualties

In their wake. 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandfather Clock

TICK..........TOCK..........TICK..........TOCK............TICK...........TOCK............

TOCK..........TICK.............TOCK ............TICK..............VERSES...........ECHO

.............UP...........STAIRS.............SEARCHING ............OUT ..........EVERY

.............ROOM...........FOUND...........ME...........FEIGNING............SLEEP

.............AND WORMED............INTO..........MY..........BRAIN............THE TOCK..........BOOMED...........FROM ITS CAVERNOUS.........CHEST.........

..........AND THE TICK.........FOLLOWED.......AT ITS.............LEISURE... ....

SECONDS.............STRETCHED.............IN MEASURED............SILENCE..

.............AS MY FEET.............SLAP............ON THE COLD.....................

FLOOR...........I  STOOD............ABOVE...........THE  MOONLIT.............. ...........LOBBY................YOUR FORM.............. PRESSED........................ ............AGAINST.............THE WALL.............I TREAD.............WARILY ...............DOWN............THE STEPS............AND PAUSE..........AGAIN......... TO GATHER.................. ...............STRENGTH........ .....................YOUR HEARTBEAT............STOPS.............AS I ................GO BY.............AS CHAINS.............AND SPRINGS...........AND COGS.........RELEASE..........THE HOUR............ STRIKES.............AND BEFORE...............IT FINISHED..........I ...........WAS  BACK.............BETWEEN............THE SHEETS..........TOCK........

TICK...........TOCK ............TICK.............TOCK............TICK............TOCK....

 

 

 

 

 

Half Ploughed Field

Have you ever seen

A half ploughed field.

One half open

The other half sealed.

One half with its guts exposed.

The other silent

Secret

Closed 

TICK..........TOCK..........TICK..........TOCK............TICK...........TOCK............

TOCK..........TICK.............TOCK ............TICK..............VERSES...........ECHO

.............UP...........STAIRS.............SEARCHING ............OUT ..........EVERY

.............ROOM...........FOUND...........ME...........FEIGNING............SLEEP

.............AND WORMED............INTO..........MY..........BRAIN............THE TOCK..........BOOMED...........FROM ITS CAVERNOUS.........CHEST.........

..........AND THE TICK.........FOLLOWED.......AT ITS.............LEISURE... ....

SECONDS.............STRETCHED.............IN MEASURED............SILENCE..

.............AS MY FEET.............SLAP............ON THE COLD.....................

FLOOR...........I  STOOD............ABOVE...........THE  MOONLIT.............. ...........LOBBY................YOUR FORM.............. PRESSED........................ ............AGAINST.............THE WALL.............I TREAD.............WARILY ...............DOWN............THE STEPS............AND PAUSE..........AGAIN......... TO GATHER.................. ...............STRENGTH........ .....................YOUR HEARTBEAT............STOPS.............AS I ................GO BY.............AS CHAINS.............AND SPRINGS...........AND COGS.........RELEASE..........THE HOUR............ STRIKES.............AND BEFORE...............IT FINISHED..........I ...........WAS  BACK.............BETWEEN............THE SHEETS..........TOCK........

TICK...........TOCK ............TICK.............TOCK............TICK............TOCK....

 

 

 

 

 

Half Ploughed Field

Have you ever seen

A half ploughed field.

One half open

The other half sealed.

One half with its guts exposed.

The other silent

Secret

Closed 

Have you ever seen

A half ploughed field.

One half open

The other half sealed.

One half with its guts exposed.

The other silent

Secret

Closed 

 

 

 

 

 

Heartstrings

Watching the nine o'clock news

Another cause is born.

As cameras seek out

Targets for our compassion

And correspondents compete to set

The most appropriate tone.

Reverential, yet accusing.

Worshipping at the altar of disaster,

They point a finger at our comfort.

And ratings go up another notch.

 

 

 

 

 

High Tide

Release a flight of children’s' feet,

Upon a page of virgin sand.

And watch them tumble, run and leap,

And trace their freedom on borrowed land.

Too busy building memories,

To notice froth tipped fingertips,

Drawing them towards their edge,

Or kissing stones with Judas lips.

Names are dragged beneath the surface,

Ramparts stormed and footprints sifted.

The  blue cloth wipes across the slate,

And serves each one an equal fate.

Reclaiming ground without elation,

High to low..................................a generation

 

 

 

 

 

Homecoming

Whilst seven slept in ragged splendour

I stepped beyond the door

To steal the skylarked dawn

And tread the world underfoot,

But turning back

I found them gone,

Surrendered to the years,

Where wormed beams

Had crashed the sky

Upon the fetid floor.

A rusted nail,

Above the frozen range,

Alone within the empty shell,

Gave life to distant times.

And then I heard them call

Within the chimney breast,

“Who’s there?”

And stepped beyond the door

A second time,

To see them sit and stare

In wide-eyed solemn wisdom,

Before they disappeared

With gentle wings

 

 

 

 

 

Houseprints

The wall on the stair

Is our home’s palmprint.

Old lathe and plaster

Pockmarked by generations

Makes manufactured flatness

Sterile

By comparison.

 

 

 

 

 

Inheritance

He clings to your back

Working his thin fingers deep under your skin

Waiting ‘round every corner

Ready to shame you with you’re luck.

It might have been him.

Visits to the hospital.

Adult conversations cut off.

Mid-sentence.

“Be quiet girl. He needs his sleep”.

No-one heard your screams.

He just faded away

But only in life.

In death he lived on even stronger

Never mentioned.

His place reserved.

You would show them

Just see if you didn’t.

Doing the work of two men

They never saw you.

Too busy with their loss.

And now, trapped by the habits

Of a lifetime.

Proving, proving, proving.

We look on in wonder.

And they loved you all the time

 

 

 

 

 

Johnnie Wilson's Day

My body shaks with unseen tremmles,

Fixed een stare wi'oot relief,

Dinna just stan' there ony longer

Let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil,

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

 "Keep weel wide!"

I'm mindin' fine

Steady man, I ken the way.

Doon.

There, here  nae bother.

Proddin' forards, gently dis it

Lifted weel and a'thegither

Johnnie Wilson, ye'll be pleased as hell.

Help me noo, I cannae see

The straightest path frae here to there.

A coorse auld yin turns, thinks better o' it

And pushes back to find the front.

Steady pace, it's as ye taught me,

Working yin side then the ither.

Yir silent words ring in my heed

We reach the circle wi'oot mishap.

You stand.

I wait.

They graze.

Bide oor time,

Slowly, slowly

A gap appears, it's a' we need.

I'm in it niver had a chance.

Push on noo towards the feenish.

Why does it always have tae end?

Dae yirr pert noo, a final flourish

Just be canny with yon stick!

But they are broken, howked and humled

And any sowel could close a gate.

We've won or so ye tell me,

I'm niver just sure what that means

Ye reach doon and stroke centuries of preparation.

But let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle,

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

                            Johnnie Wilson was a British Sheepdog trial champion.   

 

 

 

 

 

Keeled Over

Rising up from cinnamon sand

The keel slips

From cinnabar

To flush vermilion

Then ochre, oxide red and umber

Its alabaster waterline

Sets off the cobalt glaze

The garter-blue and sapphire

Rising into

Amethyst, lavender and lilac

A livery ignited

By a phosphorous sun 

 

 

 

 

 

Kitchen's Clock 

For Jill’s fortieth

I bought us an old wall clock.

Keeps perfect time

Yet has one erratic chime.

At four strikes nine

At ten rings seven.

Then, Six, Three, One,

Five, Four, Eleven.

Just as a I think I’ve cracked the code

It switches to another mode.

A woman’s clock

After all 

 

 

 

 

 

Lambing 14th March 1999

Disgorged to mother’s nithered earth

His comfort bursts and splits

The oozing form ripped by

Wind’s abrasive edge

As soil reaches up to claim its own

Tempting him to sleep, to yield

To take the comfort of the corpse

As frenzied nails fix him to the coffin ground.

And just as howling peace descends

He rudely flies and swings across

The field, cheated from his end

By roughened, caring, careless hands,

Which dress him in a perished skin

And set him on a stamping mother

To live again in Easter’s Resurrection

 

 

 

 

 

Langshaw Echoes

If you go up the Ellwyn

Two miles from the Fairydean

You'll come on an enchanted place

The best I’ve ever seen.

Now stand outside the Smithy House

An close your eyes and listen

You'll hear the echoes of the past

And all that we've been missing.

You'll hear the water on the wheel

That drove the old sawmill

You'll hear the echoes of the past

I wouldn’t bear them ill.

Now hear the children in the school

All chanting out their tables

And hear the clanking of the team

Returning to their stables.

Now hush you now and hold your peace

What’s that I hear a ringing?

Why it’s the smith at work again

He's seeing to a shoeing.

And hear the cackle from the fields

Sheaves gathered in the sun

The sound of over twenty folk

When now theirs only one.

Now listen to the sqeezebox

To the shouts and awful squeals

The village hall is shaking

To the rhythm of the reels.

And late at night you hear them

As they make their way back home

To Colmslie and Glendearg they trail

Not scared to walk alone.

Now hear the echoes further back

The Reivers and their men

Returning from a battle

They've done their part again.

The building of the towers

Rings out across the land

Each blessed stone they put in place

Was lifted up by hand.

There are some who say that echoes

Are really best forgot

That life is for the here and now

And to settle for your lot.

But I would just remind us

Not to live our lives so fast

For the noise we make today

Will join the echoes of the past.

 

 

 

 

 

Last of the Blackies

Gently tilt a hillside,

And pour its vintage at our feet.

Shake free the stubborn drops,

Which try to hold their place

Amongst their own,

But gather speed

And bunch and rush

The narrowed neck,

To spill upon the floor,

Leaving us to smash

The empty bottle

On stony ground. 

 

 

 

 

 

High Tide

Release a flight of children’s' feet,

Upon a page of virgin sand.

And watch them tumble, run and leap,

And trace their freedom on borrowed land.

Too busy building memories,

To notice froth tipped fingertips,

Drawing them towards their edge,

Or kissing stones with Judas lips.

Names are dragged beneath the surface,

Ramparts stormed and footprints sifted.

The  blue cloth wipes across the slate,

And serves each one an equal fate.

Reclaiming ground without elation,

High to low..................................a generation

 

 

 

 

 

Homecoming

Whilst seven slept in ragged splendour

I stepped beyond the door

To steal the skylarked dawn

And tread the world underfoot,

But turning back

I found them gone,

Surrendered to the years,

Where wormed beams

Had crashed the sky

Upon the fetid floor.

A rusted nail,

Above the frozen range,

Alone within the empty shell,

Gave life to distant times.

And then I heard them call

Within the chimney breast,

“Who’s there?”

And stepped beyond the door

A second time,

To see them sit and stare

In wide-eyed solemn wisdom,

Before they disappeared

With gentle wings

 

 

 

 

 

Houseprints

The wall on the stair

Is our home’s palmprint.

Old lathe and plaster

Pockmarked by generations

Makes manufactured flatness

Sterile

By comparison.

 

 

 

 

 

Inheritance

He clings to your back

Working his thin fingers deep under your skin

Waiting ‘round every corner

Ready to shame you with you’re luck.

It might have been him.

Visits to the hospital.

Adult conversations cut off.

Mid-sentence.

“Be quiet girl. He needs his sleep”.

No-one heard your screams.

He just faded away

But only in life.

In death he lived on even stronger

Never mentioned.

His place reserved.

You would show them

Just see if you didn’t.

Doing the work of two men

They never saw you.

Too busy with their loss.

And now, trapped by the habits

Of a lifetime.

Proving, proving, proving.

We look on in wonder.

And they loved you all the time

 

 

 

 

 

Johnnie Wilson's Day

My body shaks with unseen tremmles,

Fixed een stare wi'oot relief,

Dinna just stan' there ony longer

Let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil,

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

 "Keep weel wide!"

I'm mindin' fine

Steady man, I ken the way.

Doon.

There, here  nae bother.

Proddin' forards, gently dis it

Lifted weel and a'thegither

Johnnie Wilson, ye'll be pleased as hell.

Help me noo, I cannae see

The straightest path frae here to there.

A coorse auld yin turns, thinks better o' it

And pushes back to find the front.

Steady pace, it's as ye taught me,

Working yin side then the ither.

Yir silent words ring in my heed

We reach the circle wi'oot mishap.

You stand.

I wait.

They graze.

Bide oor time,

Slowly, slowly

A gap appears, it's a' we need.

I'm in it niver had a chance.

Push on noo towards the feenish.

Why does it always have tae end?

Dae yirr pert noo, a final flourish

Just be canny with yon stick!

But they are broken, howked and humled

And any sowel could close a gate.

We've won or so ye tell me,

I'm niver just sure what that means

Ye reach doon and stroke centuries of preparation.

But let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle,

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

                            Johnnie Wilson was a British Sheepdog trial champion.   

 

 

 

 

 

Keeled Over

Rising up from cinnamon sand

The keel slips

From cinnabar

To flush vermilion

Then ochre, oxide red and umber

Its alabaster waterline

Sets off the cobalt glaze

The garter-blue and sapphire

Rising into

Amethyst, lavender and lilac

A livery ignited

By a phosphorous sun 

 

 

 

 

 

Kitchen's Clock 

For Jill’s fortieth

I bought us an old wall clock.

Keeps perfect time

Yet has one erratic chime.

At four strikes nine

At ten rings seven.

Then, Six, Three, One,

Five, Four, Eleven.

Just as a I think I’ve cracked the code

It switches to another mode.

A woman’s clock

After all 

Whilst seven slept in ragged splendour

I stepped beyond the door

To steal the skylarked dawn

And tread the world underfoot,

But turning back

I found them gone,

Surrendered to the years,

Where wormed beams

Had crashed the sky

Upon the fetid floor.

A rusted nail,

Above the frozen range,

Alone within the empty shell,

Gave life to distant times.

And then I heard them call

Within the chimney breast,

“Who’s there?”

And stepped beyond the door

A second time,

To see them sit and stare

In wide-eyed solemn wisdom,

Before they disappeared

With gentle wings

The wall on the stair

Is our home’s palmprint.

Old lathe and plaster

Pockmarked by generations

Makes manufactured flatness

Sterile

By comparison.

 

 

 

 

 

Inheritance

He clings to your back

Working his thin fingers deep under your skin

Waiting ‘round every corner

Ready to shame you with you’re luck.

It might have been him.

Visits to the hospital.

Adult conversations cut off.

Mid-sentence.

“Be quiet girl. He needs his sleep”.

No-one heard your screams.

He just faded away

But only in life.

In death he lived on even stronger

Never mentioned.

His place reserved.

You would show them

Just see if you didn’t.

Doing the work of two men

They never saw you.

Too busy with their loss.

And now, trapped by the habits

Of a lifetime.

Proving, proving, proving.

We look on in wonder.

And they loved you all the time

 

 

 

 

 

Johnnie Wilson's Day

My body shaks with unseen tremmles,

Fixed een stare wi'oot relief,

Dinna just stan' there ony longer

Let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil,

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

 "Keep weel wide!"

I'm mindin' fine

Steady man, I ken the way.

Doon.

There, here  nae bother.

Proddin' forards, gently dis it

Lifted weel and a'thegither

Johnnie Wilson, ye'll be pleased as hell.

Help me noo, I cannae see

The straightest path frae here to there.

A coorse auld yin turns, thinks better o' it

And pushes back to find the front.

Steady pace, it's as ye taught me,

Working yin side then the ither.

Yir silent words ring in my heed

We reach the circle wi'oot mishap.

You stand.

I wait.

They graze.

Bide oor time,

Slowly, slowly

A gap appears, it's a' we need.

I'm in it niver had a chance.

Push on noo towards the feenish.

Why does it always have tae end?

Dae yirr pert noo, a final flourish

Just be canny with yon stick!

But they are broken, howked and humled

And any sowel could close a gate.

We've won or so ye tell me,

I'm niver just sure what that means

Ye reach doon and stroke centuries of preparation.

But let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle,

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

                            Johnnie Wilson was a British Sheepdog trial champion.   

 

 

 

 

 

Keeled Over

Rising up from cinnamon sand

The keel slips

From cinnabar

To flush vermilion

Then ochre, oxide red and umber

Its alabaster waterline

Sets off the cobalt glaze

The garter-blue and sapphire

Rising into

Amethyst, lavender and lilac

A livery ignited

By a phosphorous sun 

 

 

 

 

 

Kitchen's Clock 

For Jill’s fortieth

I bought us an old wall clock.

Keeps perfect time

Yet has one erratic chime.

At four strikes nine

At ten rings seven.

Then, Six, Three, One,

Five, Four, Eleven.

Just as a I think I’ve cracked the code

It switches to another mode.

A woman’s clock

After all 

He clings to your back

Working his thin fingers deep under your skin

Waiting ‘round every corner

Ready to shame you with you’re luck.

It might have been him.

Visits to the hospital.

Adult conversations cut off.

Mid-sentence.

“Be quiet girl. He needs his sleep”.

No-one heard your screams.

He just faded away

But only in life.

In death he lived on even stronger

Never mentioned.

His place reserved.

You would show them

Just see if you didn’t.

Doing the work of two men

They never saw you.

Too busy with their loss.

And now, trapped by the habits

Of a lifetime.

Proving, proving, proving.

We look on in wonder.

And they loved you all the time

My body shaks with unseen tremmles,

Fixed een stare wi'oot relief,

Dinna just stan' there ony longer

Let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil,

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

 "Keep weel wide!"

I'm mindin' fine

Steady man, I ken the way.

Doon.

There, here  nae bother.

Proddin' forards, gently dis it

Lifted weel and a'thegither

Johnnie Wilson, ye'll be pleased as hell.

Help me noo, I cannae see

The straightest path frae here to there.

A coorse auld yin turns, thinks better o' it

And pushes back to find the front.

Steady pace, it's as ye taught me,

Working yin side then the ither.

Yir silent words ring in my heed

We reach the circle wi'oot mishap.

You stand.

I wait.

They graze.

Bide oor time,

Slowly, slowly

A gap appears, it's a' we need.

I'm in it niver had a chance.

Push on noo towards the feenish.

Why does it always have tae end?

Dae yirr pert noo, a final flourish

Just be canny with yon stick!

But they are broken, howked and humled

And any sowel could close a gate.

We've won or so ye tell me,

I'm niver just sure what that means

Ye reach doon and stroke centuries of preparation.

But let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle,

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

                            Johnnie Wilson was a British Sheepdog trial champion.   

 

 

 

 

 

Keeled Over

Rising up from cinnamon sand

The keel slips

From cinnabar

To flush vermilion

Then ochre, oxide red and umber

Its alabaster waterline

Sets off the cobalt glaze

The garter-blue and sapphire

Rising into

Amethyst, lavender and lilac

A livery ignited

By a phosphorous sun 

 

 

 

 

 

Kitchen's Clock 

For Jill’s fortieth

I bought us an old wall clock.

Keeps perfect time

Yet has one erratic chime.

My body shaks with unseen tremmles,

Fixed een stare wi'oot relief,

Dinna just stan' there ony longer

Let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil,

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

 "Keep weel wide!"

I'm mindin' fine

Steady man, I ken the way.

Doon.

There, here  nae bother.

Proddin' forards, gently dis it

Lifted weel and a'thegither

Johnnie Wilson, ye'll be pleased as hell.

Help me noo, I cannae see

The straightest path frae here to there.

A coorse auld yin turns, thinks better o' it

And pushes back to find the front.

Steady pace, it's as ye taught me,

Working yin side then the ither.

Yir silent words ring in my heed

We reach the circle wi'oot mishap.

You stand.

I wait.

They graze.

Bide oor time,

Slowly, slowly

A gap appears, it's a' we need.

I'm in it niver had a chance.

Push on noo towards the feenish.

Why does it always have tae end?

Dae yirr pert noo, a final flourish

Just be canny with yon stick!

But they are broken, howked and humled

And any sowel could close a gate.

We've won or so ye tell me,

I'm niver just sure what that means

Ye reach doon and stroke centuries of preparation.

But let's be aff awa frae here,

Ower grass and weed and thistle,

Stretch and coil, stretch and coil

Whit a feelin', freedom, life.

                            Johnnie Wilson was a British Sheepdog trial champion.   

Rising up from cinnamon sand

The keel slips

From cinnabar

To flush vermilion

Then ochre, oxide red and umber

Its alabaster waterline

Sets off the cobalt glaze

The garter-blue and sapphire

Rising into

Amethyst, lavender and lilac

A livery ignited

By a phosphorous sun 

 

 

 

 

 

Kitchen's Clock 

 

 

 

 

 

Lambing 14th March 1999

Disgorged to mother’s nithered earth

His comfort bursts and splits

The oozing form ripped by

Wind’s abrasive edge

As soil reaches up to claim its own

Tempting him to sleep, to yield

To take the comfort of the corpse

As frenzied nails fix him to the coffin ground.

And just as howling peace descends

He rudely flies and swings across

The field, cheated from his end

By roughened, caring, careless hands,

Which dress him in a perished skin

And set him on a stamping mother

To live again in Easter’s Resurrection

 

 

 

 

 

Langshaw Echoes

If you go up the Ellwyn

Two miles from the Fairydean

You'll come on an enchanted place

The best I’ve ever seen.

Now stand outside the Smithy House

An close your eyes and listen

You'll hear the echoes of the past

And all that we've been missing.

You'll hear the water on the wheel

That drove the old sawmill

You'll hear the echoes of the past

I wouldn’t bear them ill.

Now hear the children in the school

All chanting out their tables

And hear the clanking of the team

Returning to their stables.

Now hush you now and hold your peace

What’s that I hear a ringing?

Why it’s the smith at work again

He's seeing to a shoeing.

And hear the cackle from the fields

Sheaves gathered in the sun

The sound of over twenty folk

When now theirs only one.

Now listen to the sqeezebox

To the shouts and awful squeals

The village hall is shaking

To the rhythm of the reels.

And late at night you hear them

As they make their way back home

To Colmslie and Glendearg they trail

Not scared to walk alone.

Now hear the echoes further back

The Reivers and their men

Returning from a battle

They've done their part again.

The building of the towers

Rings out across the land

Each blessed stone they put in place

Was lifted up by hand.

There are some who say that echoes

Are really best forgot

That life is for the here and now

And to settle for your lot.

But I would just remind us

Not to live our lives so fast

For the noise we make today

Will join the echoes of the past.

 

 

 

 

 

Last of the Blackies

Gently tilt a hillside,

And pour its vintage at our feet.

Shake free the stubborn drops,

Which try to hold their place

Amongst their own,

But gather speed

And bunch and rush

The narrowed neck,

To spill upon the floor,

Leaving us to smash

The empty bottle

On stony ground. 

Disgorged to mother’s nithered earth

His comfort bursts and splits

The oozing form ripped by

Wind’s abrasive edge

As soil reaches up to claim its own

Tempting him to sleep, to yield

To take the comfort of the corpse

As frenzied nails fix him to the coffin ground.

And just as howling peace descends

He rudely flies and swings across

The field, cheated from his end

By roughened, caring, careless hands,

Which dress him in a perished skin

And set him on a stamping mother

To live again in Easter’s Resurrection

 

 

 

 

 

Langshaw Echoes

If you go up the Ellwyn

Two miles from the Fairydean

You'll come on an enchanted place

The best I’ve ever seen.

Now stand outside the Smithy House

An close your eyes and listen

You'll hear the echoes of the past

And all that we've been missing.

You'll hear the water on the wheel

That drove the old sawmill

You'll hear the echoes of the past

I wouldn’t bear them ill.

Now hear the children in the school

All chanting out their tables

And hear the clanking of the team

Returning to their stables.

Now hush you now and hold your peace

What’s that I hear a ringing?

Why it’s the smith at work again

He's seeing to a shoeing.

And hear the cackle from the fields

Sheaves gathered in the sun

The sound of over twenty folk

When now theirs only one.

Now listen to the sqeezebox

To the shouts and awful squeals

The village hall is shaking

To the rhythm of the reels.

And late at night you hear them

As they make their way back home

To Colmslie and Glendearg they trail

Not scared to walk alone.

Now hear the echoes further back

The Reivers and their men

Returning from a battle

They've done their part again.

The building of the towers

Rings out across the land

Each blessed stone they put in place

Was lifted up by hand.

There are some who say that echoes

Are really best forgot

That life is for the here and now

And to settle for your lot.

But I would just remind us

Not to live our lives so fast

For the noise we make today

Will join the echoes of the past.

 

 

 

 

 

Last of the Blackies

Gently tilt a hillside,

And pour its vintage at our feet.

Shake free the stubborn drops,

Which try to hold their place

Amongst their own,

But gather speed

And bunch and rush

The narrowed neck,

To spill upon the floor,

Leaving us to smash

The empty bottle

On stony ground. 

If you go up the Ellwyn

Two miles from the Fairydean

You'll come on an enchanted place

The best I’ve ever seen.

Now stand outside the Smithy House

An close your eyes and listen

You'll hear the echoes of the past

And all that we've been missing.

You'll hear the water on the wheel

That drove the old sawmill

You'll hear the echoes of the past

I wouldn’t bear them ill.

Now hear the children in the school

All chanting out their tables

And hear the clanking of the team

Returning to their stables.

Now hush you now and hold your peace

What’s that I hear a ringing?

Why it’s the smith at work again

He's seeing to a shoeing.

And hear the cackle from the fields

Sheaves gathered in the sun

The sound of over twenty folk

When now theirs only one.

Now listen to the sqeezebox

To the shouts and awful squeals

The village hall is shaking

To the rhythm of the reels.

And late at night you hear them

As they make their way back home

To Colmslie and Glendearg they trail

Not scared to walk alone.

Now hear the echoes further back

The Reivers and their men

Returning from a battle

They've done their part again.

The building of the towers

Rings out across the land

Each blessed stone they put in place

Was lifted up by hand.

There are some who say that echoes

Are really best forgot

That life is for the here and now

And to settle for your lot.

But I would just remind us

Not to live our lives so fast

For the noise we make today

Will join the echoes of the past.

 

 

 

 

 

Last of the Blackies

Gently tilt a hillside,

And pour its vintage at our feet.

Shake free the stubborn drops,

Which try to hold their place

Amongst their own,

But gather speed

And bunch and rush

The narrowed neck,

To spill upon the floor,

Leaving us to smash

The empty bottle

On stony ground. 

Gently tilt a hillside,

And pour its vintage at our feet.

Shake free the stubborn drops,

Which try to hold their place

Amongst their own,

But gather speed

And bunch and rush

The narrowed neck,

To spill upon the floor,

Leaving us to smash

The empty bottle

On stony ground. 

I watch her through December trees

Her straight lines and perfect curves

Entwine with nature's random pattern

She lifts her skirt well clear

And dips her toes

In the cool black water

Her amber stones soften in the sun

Like tears in an empty wine glass

And melt into their reflection

Leaving her pathway in the sky

To wither on the vine

A monument to Beeching's folly

 

 

 

 

 

Leap of Faith

A long legged hare

Running in the sun

Stopped and smiled

Twitched its ears

And in an easy bound

Leapt the stone built wall.

   

Forty feet down

Prostrate on the concrete floor

It lay

As if transfixed

Mid-Jump

Staining the dried bed

With its afterglow

 

 

 

 

 

Long Lost

An empty handshake

Held too long

Fills the void

Of twenty years indifference.

Memories squeezed dry by time

Flicker briefly in stilted conversation

As we measure ourselves

Against our past.

We know the secret code

The subtle clues that

Mark out our achievements

And hide our disappointments.

Neither of us listens to the other

Too busy keeping score

Until the winner strikes

The winning blow 

A long legged hare

Running in the sun

Stopped and smiled

Twitched its ears

And in an easy bound

Leapt the stone built wall.

   

Forty feet down

Prostrate on the concrete floor

It lay

As if transfixed

Mid-Jump

Staining the dried bed

With its afterglow

 

 

 

 

 

Long Lost

An empty handshake

Held too long

Fills the void

Of twenty years indifference.

Memories squeezed dry by time

Flicker briefly in stilted conversation

As we measure ourselves

Against our past.

We know the secret code

The subtle clues that

Mark out our achievements

And hide our disappointments.

Neither of us listens to the other

Too busy keeping score

Until the winner strikes

The winning blow 

An empty handshake

Held too long

Fills the void

Of twenty years indifference.

Memories squeezed dry by time

Flicker briefly in stilted conversation

As we measure ourselves

Against our past.

We know the secret code

The subtle clues that

Mark out our achievements

And hide our disappointments.

Neither of us listens to the other

Too busy keeping score

Until the winner strikes

The winning blow 

Gold nibbed

Blue enamelled

‘Parker’

Made to measure

For a hand.

Gave signature

Some style.

Yet a Biro

Wrote these

Lines.

 

 

 

 

 

Luck

Turn a mirror on itself

And draw your focus to a point.

A soundless endless echo

Which vanishes from sight.

   

And so we lift them from their hills

And pack them in their pen

These living single summers

Single summers without end.

   

See the noble and the haughty

Amongst the rabble and the dregs

The blue blood of the princess

Beside the bent and bowdy legged.

   

So will you take my luck sir?

I have a polished penny here

Polished by our lifetimes

Polished by our fear.

Turn a mirror on itself

And draw your focus to a point.

A soundless endless echo

Which vanishes from sight.

   

And so we lift them from their hills

And pack them in their pen

These living single summers

Single summers without end.

   

See the noble and the haughty

Amongst the rabble and the dregs

The blue blood of the princess

Beside the bent and bowdy legged.

   

So will you take my luck sir?

I have a polished penny here

Polished by our lifetimes

Polished by our fear.

You celebrated your 40th birthday last week

So I heard

At home with your mother

She brings you breakfast in bed

And sets your clothes out on a chair

Jerked out of the groove at 19

By a corner that came too soon

The bus collects you every morning

And you wave goodbye as you step aboard

Wiping mist from the glass

But seeing only with your eyes

Your journey stopped long ago

Dreams and ambitions

Replaced by three metal plates.

  

Supple and forgiving

They caress the ground,

Beaten into shape

By craftsmen of the Cairngorms.

The Lairig Ghru,

Ben Ledi and The Cobbler,

Glens and Bens,

Corries and ridges,

High Level passes

Grip scrubbed smooth

By mileage unclocked.

 

 

 

 

 

Outwintering

The white tide cuts across the hill

And marks a different world

Which freezes to the touch.

A sky which sharpens to a point,

A surface scraped by bitter blast,

And there,

Ignoring with a wary eye,

Stood the frost-backed beast.

   

His burnished chest,

Reflects against the glare

And makes meaning,

Of magnificent,

With shoulders bursting

Through their hide,

As he lugs his heavy burden

Towards his chosen one.

   

A red-roan seven-seasoned mother,

Who thrives where others perish

Has stood the test of time

And readies for her chore.

To take his weight,

To take his seed,

To take his life.

 

 

 

 

 

Photographer's Curse

Beddit in ma comfy grund

Chowin’ on ma dreams

I spied ye wi ma half shut ee

An’ heard yer pechs and groans.

As on ye struggl’t up ma hill

An’ heft up oan yer back

A monster wi three legs or mair

Came climbin’ oot yer sack.

A many splindered whirligig

It danced upon the rocks

Until ye got the better o’ it

An’ tied it doon wi blocks

The horny-goloch wisnae beat

Its legs it push’d an’ sprouted

An’ afore I even kent ma’sel

I had hupped and shouted.

But as the sun began to rise

It clutched ye tae its breest

Despite ma warnings and ma cries

It wis aboot tae feast.

So up I stotted tae yer aid

I couldnae tak nae mair

An’ looked the beastie in the eye

An’ gied ma cauldest stare.

But whit a stramash did ye stir

Ye shouted, screamed and cried

An’ then ye picked a muckle stane

An’ at ma heid ye shied.

Weel patience din I charged ye baith

It folded wi’ a shunt

An’ you ye graceless donnert man

Went fleein’ wi a dunt.

An’ galloped aff wi scittered shanks

Yer breek arse at yer ankles

Wi’oot a single word o’ thanks

As the monster lay in fankles.

 

 

 

 

 

Picture Book Mind

On a cold, wet Sunday afternoon

He travelled thousands of miles and hundreds of years.

Flitting through time and space as boredom dictated,

Taking on existences as he pleased,

While his eyes never betrayed the truth.

His bed could change, chameleon-like,

From a starship to a stage-coach,

From a bus to a battle-cruiser.

And each time he would play his part

Under the directions of his picture book mind.

He could kill with a smile on his face,

Or crumple on the floor,

Clutching his bloody chest with a silent scream.

While his brother conjured his own backdrop to every scene,

Switching from ally to foe without suggestion,

Happy to die with a peanut butter sandwich in his hand.

How I envy them their freedom,

Their untutored ability,

To step beyond the narrow boundaries of reality.

Untroubled by the false dignity of common sense.

Enjoy it while you can my sons,

Education,

Is lying in wait!

 

 

 

 

 

Ploughing the Meadow

They ploughed over the meadow today

A Dowdeswell five furrow reversible plough

Passed back and forth

Executing a thoughtlessly good job

Turning under a summer's roll call

Smooth stalked meadow grass

Fescue, Common Bent and Foxtail

Sweet Vernal, Burnet Saxifrage

Speedwell,Tormentil and Buttercup

A palette of names, entombed

And this evening I watched a Barn Owl

Drift ghost-like across the sterile ground

Quartering again and again, deceived

By a landscape betrayed

The white tide cuts across the hill

And marks a different world

Which freezes to the touch.

A sky which sharpens to a point,

A surface scraped by bitter blast,

And there,

Ignoring with a wary eye,

Stood the frost-backed beast.

   

His burnished chest,

Reflects against the glare

And makes meaning,

Of magnificent,

With shoulders bursting

Through their hide,

As he lugs his heavy burden

Towards his chosen one.

   

A red-roan seven-seasoned mother,

Who thrives where others perish

Has stood the test of time

And readies for her chore.

To take his weight,

To take his seed,

To take his life.

 

 

 

 

 

Photographer's Curse

Beddit in ma comfy grund

Chowin’ on ma dreams

I spied ye wi ma half shut ee

An’ heard yer pechs and groans.

As on ye struggl’t up ma hill

An’ heft up oan yer back

A monster wi three legs or mair

Came climbin’ oot yer sack.

A many splindered whirligig

It danced upon the rocks

Until ye got the better o’ it

An’ tied it doon wi blocks

The horny-goloch wisnae beat

Its legs it push’d an’ sprouted

An’ afore I even kent ma’sel

I had hupped and shouted.

But as the sun began to rise

It clutched ye tae its breest

Despite ma warnings and ma cries

It wis aboot tae feast.

So up I stotted tae yer aid

I couldnae tak nae mair

An’ looked the beastie in the eye

An’ gied ma cauldest stare.

But whit a stramash did ye stir

Ye shouted, screamed and cried

An’ then ye picked a muckle stane

An’ at ma heid ye shied.

Weel patience din I charged ye baith

It folded wi’ a shunt

An’ you ye graceless donnert man

Went fleein’ wi a dunt.

An’ galloped aff wi scittered shanks

Yer breek arse at yer ankles

Wi’oot a single word o’ thanks

As the monster lay in fankles.

 

 

 

 

 

Picture Book Mind

On a cold, wet Sunday afternoon

He travelled thousands of miles and hundreds of years.

Flitting through time and space as boredom dictated,

Taking on existences as he pleased,

While his eyes never betrayed the truth.

His bed could change, chameleon-like,

From a starship to a stage-coach,

From a bus to a battle-cruiser.

And each time he would play his part

Under the directions of his picture book mind.

He could kill with a smile on his face,

Or crumple on the floor,

Clutching his bloody chest with a silent scream.

While his brother conjured his own backdrop to every scene,

Switching from ally to foe without suggestion,

Happy to die with a peanut butter sandwich in his hand.

How I envy them their freedom,

Their untutored ability,

To step beyond the narrow boundaries of reality.

Untroubled by the false dignity of common sense.

Enjoy it while you can my sons,

Education,

Is lying in wait!

 

 

 

 

 

Ploughing the Meadow

They ploughed over the meadow today

A Dowdeswell five furrow reversible plough

Passed back and forth

Executing a thoughtlessly good job

Turning under a summer's roll call

Smooth stalked meadow grass

Fescue, Common Bent and Foxtail

Sweet Vernal, Burnet Saxifrage

Speedwell,Tormentil and Buttercup

A palette of names, entombed

And this evening I watched a Barn Owl

Drift ghost-like across the sterile ground

Quartering again and again, deceived

By a landscape betrayed

Beddit in ma comfy grund

Chowin’ on ma dreams

I spied ye wi ma half shut ee

An’ heard yer pechs and groans.

As on ye struggl’t up ma hill

An’ heft up oan yer back

A monster wi three legs or mair

Came climbin’ oot yer sack.

A many splindered whirligig

It danced upon the rocks

Until ye got the better o’ it

An’ tied it doon wi blocks

The horny-goloch wisnae beat

Its legs it push’d an’ sprouted

An’ afore I even kent ma’sel

I had hupped and shouted.

But as the sun began to rise

It clutched ye tae its breest

Despite ma warnings and ma cries

It wis aboot tae feast.

So up I stotted tae yer aid

I couldnae tak nae mair

An’ looked the beastie in the eye

An’ gied ma cauldest stare.

But whit a stramash did ye stir

Ye shouted, screamed and cried

An’ then ye picked a muckle stane

An’ at ma heid ye shied.

Weel patience din I charged ye baith

It folded wi’ a shunt

An’ you ye graceless donnert man

Went fleein’ wi a dunt.

An’ galloped aff wi scittered shanks

Yer breek arse at yer ankles

Wi’oot a single word o’ thanks

As the monster lay in fankles.

 

 

 

 

 

Picture Book Mind

On a cold, wet Sunday afternoon

He travelled thousands of miles and hundreds of years.

Flitting through time and space as boredom dictated,

Taking on existences as he pleased,

While his eyes never betrayed the truth.

His bed could change, chameleon-like,

From a starship to a stage-coach,

From a bus to a battle-cruiser.

And each time he would play his part

Under the directions of his picture book mind.

He could kill with a smile on his face,

Or crumple on the floor,

Clutching his bloody chest with a silent scream.

While his brother conjured his own backdrop to every scene,

Switching from ally to foe without suggestion,

Happy to die with a peanut butter sandwich in his hand.

How I envy them their freedom,

Their untutored ability,

To step beyond the narrow boundaries of reality.

Untroubled by the false dignity of common sense.

Enjoy it while you can my sons,

Education,

Is lying in wait!

 

 

 

 

 

Ploughing the Meadow

They ploughed over the meadow today

A Dowdeswell five furrow reversible plough

Passed back and forth

Executing a thoughtlessly good job

Turning under a summer's roll call

Smooth stalked meadow grass

Fescue, Common Bent and Foxtail

Sweet Vernal, Burnet Saxifrage

Speedwell,Tormentil and Buttercup

A palette of names, entombed

And this evening I watched a Barn Owl

Drift ghost-like across the sterile ground

Quartering again and again, deceived

By a landscape betrayed

On a cold, wet Sunday afternoon

He travelled thousands of miles and hundreds of years.

Flitting through time and space as boredom dictated,

Taking on existences as he pleased,

While his eyes never betrayed the truth.

His bed could change, chameleon-like,

From a starship to a stage-coach,

From a bus to a battle-cruiser.

And each time he would play his part

Under the directions of his picture book mind.

He could kill with a smile on his face,

Or crumple on the floor,

Clutching his bloody chest with a silent scream.

While his brother conjured his own backdrop to every scene,

Switching from ally to foe without suggestion,

Happy to die with a peanut butter sandwich in his hand.

How I envy them their freedom,

Their untutored ability,

To step beyond the narrow boundaries of reality.

Untroubled by the false dignity of common sense.

Enjoy it while you can my sons,

Education,

Is lying in wait!

 

 

 

 

 

Ploughing the Meadow

They ploughed over the meadow today

A Dowdeswell five furrow reversible plough

Passed back and forth

Executing a thoughtlessly good job

Turning under a summer's roll call

Smooth stalked meadow grass

Fescue, Common Bent and Foxtail

Sweet Vernal, Burnet Saxifrage

Speedwell,Tormentil and Buttercup

A palette of names, entombed

And this evening I watched a Barn Owl

Drift ghost-like across the sterile ground

Quartering again and again, deceived

By a landscape betrayed

She sipped her lemon tea

Within a high walled garden,

Beneath a perfect square of sky

Breached only by occasional clouds or sliding gulls.

Her roses, sacrificed themselves upon the walls,

Reaching upwards to their freedom

Until they lost their grasp towards the top,

Their blood-red bodies falling back, spread-eagled on the wire.

Relentless shadows crept across the ground,

Shrinking, squeezing, pressing out the flowers from her space.

And throughout - despite the darkness carving out the light,

She made the most of every colour, of every scent and every sense.

As single lines were drawn up,

From deep within a hidden source,

And linked together in endless chains

To lift her far beyond this place.

She could raise a sonnet from a page,

Hold it gently in her hands before releasing it to freedom

To fly and soar beyond her sight,

These pictures grew and filled the void.

Her garden never died, never fell to winter.

The high walled garden became her paradise,

A refuge, where her four score years and four

Gave way to the reality of her mind,

Where roamed a woman - in the height of summer.

His speed dances to a stop

As he zeroes on the scent.

Yet his stillness has more power

Than his flight.

And just as shade shows up the light,

As winter makes the spring,

His frozen stride

Holds us,

And our imaginations,

For a brief,

Exquisite,

Moment,

And we forget ourselves.

Held fast in a geometric stance,

You treat us with disdain,

Too intent upon your task,

As your reflections telescope into the distance.

A roller coaster from the unknown.

Sharing our space as an uninvited guest,

As a guardian of others' progress,

You resonate a note of discord,

As our lifeblood passes through your veins.

Yet still you are despised!

Borrowing the dimensions of an ancient oak,

You reject the seasons,

Untroubled by their Rhythm,

Preferring instead perpetual winter,

And the bare bones of a skeletal form.

A slave to the logic of supply and demand,

You follow orders without question,

Confident in your conformity.

And, if threatened,

You'd pull your jackboots from the ground.

Clinging for its life,   

It grew slowly,

A window on the world

Before gathering itself,

To fly an instant

Only to burst,

Upon the smooth stone.

Clinging for its life,

It grew slowly,

A window on the world.

Before gathering itself,

To fly an instant.          

Only to burst,

Upon the smooth stone.

Clinging for its life.........

 

 

 

 

 

Reflections on a weighting sky

Let me roll

My line upon

A Black pearled sky

To catch my passage

From timeless depths.

And let me

Cast my mind

To float upon

The gold,

Tempting memories to bite,

To take them,

Taste them,

Just once more,

Before,

Returning them,

Unharmed,

To a weighting sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Roofless church

Black jagged stars

Burst the leaded glass

As pigeons stain the pews

And darkness fills the void.

   

Shattered Slates

Expose the blackened beams

Growing grass at fifty feet

And darkness fills the void

   

Graffiti screams

Its thoughtless filth

Whilst litter dances at the door

And darkness fills the void

   

All for the convenience

Of a faith without a home

A faith without a fee

And darkness fills the void

 

 

 

 

 

Baby Scan

A shape lies heavy in the sac,

As silence echoes 'round magnolia walls.

Images, traced radar-like

Search the lifeless fog.

No happy pointing to head and feet.

No sideshow this!

Passed on up the line.

And with each aching minute

More certainty.

Hopes, plans, future.

Ours or his?

Fade....................

Let me roll

My line upon

A Black pearled sky

To catch my passage

From timeless depths.

And let me

Cast my mind

To float upon

The gold,

Tempting memories to bite,

To take them,

Taste them,

Just once more,

Before,

Returning them,

Unharmed,

To a weighting sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Roofless church

Black jagged stars

Burst the leaded glass

As pigeons stain the pews

And darkness fills the void.

   

Shattered Slates

Expose the blackened beams

Growing grass at fifty feet

And darkness fills the void

   

Graffiti screams

Its thoughtless filth

Whilst litter dances at the door

And darkness fills the void

   

All for the convenience

Of a faith without a home

A faith without a fee

And darkness fills the void

 

 

 

 

 

Baby Scan

A shape lies heavy in the sac,

As silence echoes 'round magnolia walls.

Images, traced radar-like

Search the lifeless fog.

No happy pointing to head and feet.

No sideshow this!

Passed on up the line.

And with each aching minute

More certainty.

Hopes, plans, future.

Ours or his?

Fade....................

Black jagged stars

Burst the leaded glass

As pigeons stain the pews

And darkness fills the void.

   

Shattered Slates

Expose the blackened beams

Growing grass at fifty feet

And darkness fills the void

   

Graffiti screams

Its thoughtless filth

Whilst litter dances at the door

And darkness fills the void

   

All for the convenience

Of a faith without a home

A faith without a fee

And darkness fills the void

 

 

 

 

 

Baby Scan

A shape lies heavy in the sac,

As silence echoes 'round magnolia walls.

Images, traced radar-like

Search the lifeless fog.

No happy pointing to head and feet.

No sideshow this!

Passed on up the line.

And with each aching minute

More certainty.

Hopes, plans, future.

Ours or his?

Fade....................

A shape lies heavy in the sac,

As silence echoes 'round magnolia walls.

Images, traced radar-like

Search the lifeless fog.

No happy pointing to head and feet.

No sideshow this!

Passed on up the line.

And with each aching minute

More certainty.

Hopes, plans, future.

Ours or his?

Fade....................

Stared out. Abused by casual eyes

Which flick through pages

With coffee table minds.

We taste but never swallow

Spitting snapshots

In long to be forgotten

Books. Ticking lists

And moving on before we stop.

   

Here?

From where before his grave

Two horses held his gaze

In patient pause, to recollect

The man where dreams of legend

Came alive. Before they felt time’s whip

And left to pull his shell

On, and into, history

   

And so we follow,

Passing time in shallow worship

Wearing out the land

With reckless gape

Taking comfort that we share

A place with him

Before,

Our horses come.

 

 

 

 

 

Scree Walk

Between climb and walk

We scramble,

All fours.

Animals, without the grace,

Searching for firm ground.

As leader’s debris

gently shifts us,

And our steps,

Back down the hill.

Next time,

I’ll stay at home.

Between climb and walk

We scramble,

All fours.

Animals, without the grace,

Searching for firm ground.

As leader’s debris

gently shifts us,

And our steps,

Back down the hill.

Next time,

I’ll stay at home.

 

 

 

 

 

Sentinel

Each November the Fieldfares come

And take up residence in our old apple tree

And each year the apples hold their place

Against the frost and slicing Northern winds

Incongruous inhabitants of a winter scene

Come January the birds have gone, save two

Who hunt each other round the tree

Ignoring rare abundance

They have no time to feed

As senseless rivalry provides no respite

Then one morning a single bird remains

Still chasing it’s departed foe

Whilst clinging remnants of a summer past

Lose patience and throw themselves to earth

To lie beside the rival’s lifeless form.

 

 

 

 

 

Severe Weather Warning

Remember when snow

Kept its secret to itself.

Slipping in through the night

To wake us in the morning,

All white light and silence.

Or through a classroom window

Watching white confetti

Dancing on the breeze.

Wishing it would never stop,

Lessons long forgotten.

Escaping to roll turfs of snow,

A criss-cross of giant snail tracks.

Hands without feeling,

Ice, sliding down your neck.,

Warfare without the blood.

When did it happen?

To feel relief as Christmas snow

Turns to December rain.

Give me back my window

Let it keep its secret to itself.

 

 

 

 

 

She only sees the light

The Cameron Highlands sounded so exotic

To be born in the tropics – a colonial miss

She could have been a proper lady!

The foundation of happiness,

Upon which she built a life,

Proved all too short

And sailing home – alone

She built an imaginary world

Protecting herself by

Always seeing the best

Learning how to sacrifice

Drawing people to her light

Her innocence balanced by her knowing.

She waited for her time

Remembered running on a platform

Holding him in her arms

Feeling his emaciated body

Reunited - a family once more.

Koreen, Alford, Donside

Nursing, dances, army

And somewhere in here a man

A special man

A man who made her whole

Lives and hearts entwined in perfect balance

A wonderful blur

26 Duddingston Crescent, Windyridge

Housewife, receptionist, nurse, mother, lover

Multitasking on a grand scale

A Neverland of wondrous memories.

She nurtured her tribe of boys and girl

They grew happy and protected

Yet time takes its toll

The crocodile’s ticking clock

Catches us all

Yet laughter, love and happiness

Drowns out the ticks

From a woman who only sees the light

For my mother Barrie Ledingham (nee Gibson) - who was born in Malaya, 1930 where her father was rubber planter. He was captured by the Japanese and spent the war in Changi Jail. She was named after J. M Barrie who wrote Peter Pan.

 

 

Summer's Day in February

The rain bounced on the hay shed roof,
Drumming tunes on the corrugated iron,
Before it filled the folds,
And dropped to the ground in an ragged curtain.
I listened to the rain music,

And watched the sky sit heavy on its hunkers.
Holding down the distant hills.
Sucking contrast from the fields.
My hand closed on the warm hay.

And twisting a spiral round my fingers,
I pulled it from its bed.
Last year's summer crackled.
And framed between its course and faded stems,

Was held a blood red poppy,
Which crumbled to the touch.
And the rain bounced on the hay shed roof.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Severe Weather Warning

Remember when snow

Kept its secret to itself.

Slipping in through the night

To wake us in the morning,

All white light and silence.

Or through a classroom window

Watching white confetti

Dancing on the breeze.

Wishing it would never stop,

Lessons long forgotten.

Escaping to roll turfs of snow,

A criss-cross of giant snail tracks.

Hands without feeling,

Ice, sliding down your neck.,

Warfare without the blood.

When did it happen?

To feel relief as Christmas snow

Turns to December rain.

Give me back my window

Let it keep its secret to itself.

 

 

 

 

 

She only sees the light

The Cameron Highlands sounded so exotic

To be born in the tropics – a colonial miss

She could have been a proper lady!

The foundation of happiness,

Upon which she built a life,

Proved all too short

And sailing home – alone

She built an imaginary world

Protecting herself by

Always seeing the best

Learning how to sacrifice

Drawing people to her light

Her innocence balanced by her knowing.

She waited for her time

Remembered running on a platform

Holding him in her arms

Feeling his emaciated body

Reunited - a family once more.

Koreen, Alford, Donside

Nursing, dances, army

And somewhere in here a man

A special man

A man who made her whole

Lives and hearts entwined in perfect balance

A wonderful blur

26 Duddingston Crescent, Windyridge

Housewife, receptionist, nurse, mother, lover

Multitasking on a grand scale

A Neverland of wondrous memories.

She nurtured her tribe of boys and girl

They grew happy and protected

Yet time takes its toll

The crocodile’s ticking clock

Catches us all

Yet laughter, love and happiness

Drowns out the ticks

From a woman who only sees the light

For my mother Barrie Ledingham (nee Gibson) - who was born in Malaya, 1930 where her father was rubber planter. He was captured by the Japanese and spent the war in Changi Jail. She was named after J. M Barrie who wrote Peter Pan.

 

 

Summer's Day in February

The rain bounced on the hay shed roof,
Drumming tunes on the corrugated iron,
Before it filled the folds,
And dropped to the ground in an ragged curtain.
I listened to the rain music,

And watched the sky sit heavy on its hunkers.
Holding down the distant hills.
Sucking contrast from the fields.
My hand closed on the warm hay.

And twisting a spiral round my fingers,
I pulled it from its bed.
Last year's summer crackled.
And framed between its course and faded stems,

Was held a blood red poppy,
Which crumbled to the touch.
And the rain bounced on the hay shed roof.

 

 

 

Remember when snow

Kept its secret to itself.

Slipping in through the night

To wake us in the morning,

All white light and silence.

Or through a classroom window

Watching white confetti

Dancing on the breeze.

Wishing it would never stop,

Lessons long forgotten.

Escaping to roll turfs of snow,

A criss-cross of giant snail tracks.

Hands without feeling,

Ice, sliding down your neck.,

Warfare without the blood.

When did it happen?

To feel relief as Christmas snow

Turns to December rain.

Give me back my window

Let it keep its secret to itself.

 

 

 

 

 

She only sees the light

The Cameron Highlands sounded so exotic

To be born in the tropics – a colonial miss

She could have been a proper lady!

The foundation of happiness,

Upon which she built a life,

Proved all too short

And sailing home – alone

She built an imaginary world

Protecting herself by

Always seeing the best

Learning how to sacrifice

Drawing people to her light

Her innocence balanced by her knowing.

She waited for her time

Remembered running on a platform

Holding him in her arms

Feeling his emaciated body

Reunited - a family once more.

Koreen, Alford, Donside

Nursing, dances, army

And somewhere in here a man

A special man

A man who made her whole

Lives and hearts entwined in perfect balance

A wonderful blur

26 Duddingston Crescent, Windyridge

Housewife, receptionist, nurse, mother, lover

Multitasking on a grand scale

A Neverland of wondrous memories.

She nurtured her tribe of boys and girl

They grew happy and protected

Yet time takes its toll

The crocodile’s ticking clock

Catches us all

Yet laughter, love and happiness

Drowns out the ticks

From a woman who only sees the light

For my mother Barrie Ledingham (nee Gibson) - who was born in Malaya, 1930 where her father was rubber planter. He was captured by the Japanese and spent the war in Changi Jail. She was named after J. M Barrie who wrote Peter Pan.

 

 

Summer's Day in February

The rain bounced on the hay shed roof,
Drumming tunes on the corrugated iron,
Before it filled the folds,
And dropped to the ground in an ragged curtain.
I listened to the rain music,

And watched the sky sit heavy on its hunkers.
Holding down the distant hills.
Sucking contrast from the fields.
My hand closed on the warm hay.

And twisting a spiral round my fingers,
I pulled it from its bed.
Last year's summer crackled.
And framed between its course and faded stems,

Was held a blood red poppy,
Which crumbled to the touch.
And the rain bounced on the hay shed roof.

 

 

 

The Cameron Highlands sounded so exotic

To be born in the tropics – a colonial miss

She could have been a proper lady!

The foundation of happiness,

Upon which she built a life,

Proved all too short

And sailing home – alone

She built an imaginary world

Protecting herself by

Always seeing the best

Learning how to sacrifice

Drawing people to her light

Her innocence balanced by her knowing.

She waited for her time

Remembered running on a platform

Holding him in her arms

Feeling his emaciated body

Reunited - a family once more.

Koreen, Alford, Donside

Nursing, dances, army

And somewhere in here a man

A special man

A man who made her whole

Lives and hearts entwined in perfect balance

A wonderful blur

26 Duddingston Crescent, Windyridge

Housewife, receptionist, nurse, mother, lover

Multitasking on a grand scale

A Neverland of wondrous memories.

She nurtured her tribe of boys and girl

They grew happy and protected

Yet time takes its toll

The crocodile’s ticking clock

Catches us all

Yet laughter, love and happiness

Drowns out the ticks

From a woman who only sees the light

For my mother Barrie Ledingham (nee Gibson) - who was born in Malaya, 1930 where her father was rubber planter. He was captured by the Japanese and spent the war in Changi Jail. She was named after J. M Barrie who wrote Peter Pan.

 

 

Summer's Day in February

The rain bounced on the hay shed roof,
Drumming tunes on the corrugated iron,
Before it filled the folds,
And dropped to the ground in an ragged curtain.
I listened to the rain music,

And watched the sky sit heavy on its hunkers.
Holding down the distant hills.
Sucking contrast from the fields.
My hand closed on the warm hay.

And twisting a spiral round my fingers,
I pulled it from its bed.
Last year's summer crackled.
And framed between its course and faded stems,

Was held a blood red poppy,
Which crumbled to the touch.
And the rain bounced on the hay shed roof.

 

 

 

Distant memories of Sunday kirk

Where you watched my prayers with a knowing smirk.

While proudly draped round a widow's neck

Your glass eye fixed me without a break.

Alone you knew I was a fraud

Ma thoughts had never strayed to God.

A wisdom that a came to fear.

That,

And your crooked,

Sleekit,

Leer.

 

 

 

 

 

Swansong

Land locked

By freezing fingers

Crossing ground

Where waters once had whispered

Now silk smooth

And sculpted

Burnished black

Glossed and glazed

Softly squeezing

With Heavy hands

Which quietly close

Upon the  song.

 

 

 

 

 

Swilken Burn Bridge

Where Old Tom Morris stood and took a line of sight

Towards an unimagined time, stands a bridge

Which spans the years and dreams of man.

   

Its keystone bears the weight of echoes

And binds them to the stones,

Which gently rise above the tended calm.

   

Until it comes once more to life.

And takes its rightful place

As a passage from mortality,

   

Lifting those who float across its sweep,

In joyful pandemonium,

To taste fame’s momentary nectar.

   

Or those, like Nicklaus, the Golden Bear,

Who blessed it with his presence

And turned granite into gold.

   

Or Spain’s magician,

A sorcerer who touched our lives

And conjured victories from an empty hand.

   

Or see a place where Tiger prowls

His power launched in peerless grace

Before he crushes breath from man and links alike

   

Yet for some a set of scaffold steps.

A gangplank which drops them from the dizzy heights

In painful public execution.

   

But all build memories for generations,

Scratching marks upon life’s fleeting walls

But losing to a simple stone- built arch,

   

Which takes its comfort that its gateway

Between two different worlds,

Lies beyond the wealth of man.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bricklayer

Lover of straight lines,

You hate your work.

Yet, as if by magic

Lines of rough brown brick

Flow from your hands

And, imperceptibly,

Paper turns into stone,

Trapping space in small boxes.

Before you move on,

Never looking back,

Just another brick in your wall.

 

 

 

 

 

The Clipping

Surrounded by the Cheviots

A soaring sun and diving Peewits

The clipper rigged his gear with a master's expert eye;

Blades sharpened with affection

Each caught a bright reflection

As perfect and as pure as a Curlew's melancholy cry.

The pace was tight and measured

As if each moment treasured

By a man who took his comfort from the magic in his hands;

His skills were years in making

Ten thousand hours back breaking

As a passion grew inside him that no layman understands.

No tricks, no ostentation

No frills, no decoration

Yet the veins upon his trunk-like arms were all but fit to burst;

Shirt soaked with perspiration

Eyes fixed with concentration

As if imprisoned by the talent with which he had been cursed.

He cast each fleece upon the ground

Amidst the unrelenting sound

Of dogs and sheep and buzzing shears, a noise that never left the ears;

His arm found a rhythmic groove

Hypnotic ease to every move

As seconds passed and minutes passed from hours into years.

The day was almost finished

Yet his art was not diminished

By the knowledge that his labours were nearly at an end;

For pride imbued his every action

He could not slacken by a fraction

Addicted to a lifestyle to which there is no mend.

 

 

 

 

 

The Heron

He was there,

Waiting,

I could feel him,

Obsequious,

As his haunted presence

Hunched over his patience.

Waiting,

In his morning tails,

Head dropped his between

His stooping shoulders,

Watching,

Slow in his shadows,

Waiting,

Letting them live their lives,

Carelessly.

Until,

Waiting over,

He fired

And left,

With a scream,

And a smile

On his face.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

I stumbled back nearly sixty years.

As the heady mix of engine oil and leather

Threw me back into the benchseat

Alongside the old farmer.

A giant of a man

As dour as he was big

Who gripped the wheel with massive fists.

And stared out far beyond his field of view.

I knew better than disturb his practised silence

And craned my neck to see over the polished bonnet

Lining up the silver emblem

As my Spitfire's gunsight.

My game and his peace

Were broken by a sickly crack

And in the instant that it hit the glass

I caught its screaming eye.

The old man said nothing

As we rolled to a clumsy halt

And pulled himself stiffly from his seat.

The late evening sun cast his shadow forty feet.

He stooped and lifted the tiny form

Lost in his callused hand

And a fragile tear splashed

Silently on the dusty road.

 

 

 

 

 

The Kick

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Land locked

By freezing fingers

Crossing ground

Where waters once had whispered

Now silk smooth

And sculpted

Burnished black

Glossed and glazed

Softly squeezing

With Heavy hands

Which quietly close

Upon the  song.

Where Old Tom Morris stood and took a line of sight

Towards an unimagined time, stands a bridge

Which spans the years and dreams of man.

   

Its keystone bears the weight of echoes

And binds them to the stones,

Which gently rise above the tended calm.

   

Until it comes once more to life.

And takes its rightful place

As a passage from mortality,

   

Lifting those who float across its sweep,

In joyful pandemonium,

To taste fame’s momentary nectar.

   

Or those, like Nicklaus, the Golden Bear,

Who blessed it with his presence

And turned granite into gold.

   

Or Spain’s magician,

A sorcerer who touched our lives

And conjured victories from an empty hand.

   

Or see a place where Tiger prowls

His power launched in peerless grace

Before he crushes breath from man and links alike

   

Yet for some a set of scaffold steps.

A gangplank which drops them from the dizzy heights

In painful public execution.

   

But all build memories for generations,

Scratching marks upon life’s fleeting walls

But losing to a simple stone- built arch,

   

Which takes its comfort that its gateway

Between two different worlds,

Lies beyond the wealth of man.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bricklayer

Lover of straight lines,

You hate your work.

Yet, as if by magic

Lines of rough brown brick

Flow from your hands

And, imperceptibly,

Paper turns into stone,

Trapping space in small boxes.

Before you move on,

Never looking back,

Just another brick in your wall.

 

 

 

 

 

The Clipping

Surrounded by the Cheviots

A soaring sun and diving Peewits

The clipper rigged his gear with a master's expert eye;

Blades sharpened with affection

Each caught a bright reflection

As perfect and as pure as a Curlew's melancholy cry.

The pace was tight and measured

As if each moment treasured

By a man who took his comfort from the magic in his hands;

His skills were years in making

Ten thousand hours back breaking

As a passion grew inside him that no layman understands.

No tricks, no ostentation

No frills, no decoration

Yet the veins upon his trunk-like arms were all but fit to burst;

Shirt soaked with perspiration

Eyes fixed with concentration

As if imprisoned by the talent with which he had been cursed.

He cast each fleece upon the ground

Amidst the unrelenting sound

Of dogs and sheep and buzzing shears, a noise that never left the ears;

His arm found a rhythmic groove

Hypnotic ease to every move

As seconds passed and minutes passed from hours into years.

The day was almost finished

Yet his art was not diminished

By the knowledge that his labours were nearly at an end;

For pride imbued his every action

He could not slacken by a fraction

Addicted to a lifestyle to which there is no mend.

 

 

 

 

 

The Heron

He was there,

Waiting,

I could feel him,

Obsequious,

As his haunted presence

Hunched over his patience.

Waiting,

In his morning tails,

Head dropped his between

His stooping shoulders,

Watching,

Slow in his shadows,

Waiting,

Letting them live their lives,

Carelessly.

Until,

Waiting over,

He fired

And left,

With a scream,

And a smile

On his face.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

I stumbled back nearly sixty years.

As the heady mix of engine oil and leather

Threw me back into the benchseat

Alongside the old farmer.

A giant of a man

As dour as he was big

Who gripped the wheel with massive fists.

And stared out far beyond his field of view.

I knew better than disturb his practised silence

And craned my neck to see over the polished bonnet

Lining up the silver emblem

As my Spitfire's gunsight.

My game and his peace

Were broken by a sickly crack

And in the instant that it hit the glass

I caught its screaming eye.

The old man said nothing

As we rolled to a clumsy halt

And pulled himself stiffly from his seat.

The late evening sun cast his shadow forty feet.

He stooped and lifted the tiny form

Lost in his callused hand

And a fragile tear splashed

Silently on the dusty road.

 

 

 

 

 

The Kick

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Lover of straight lines,

You hate your work.

Yet, as if by magic

Lines of rough brown brick

Flow from your hands

And, imperceptibly,

Paper turns into stone,

Trapping space in small boxes.

Before you move on,

Never looking back,

Just another brick in your wall.

 

 

 

 

 

The Clipping

Surrounded by the Cheviots

A soaring sun and diving Peewits

The clipper rigged his gear with a master's expert eye;

Blades sharpened with affection

Each caught a bright reflection

As perfect and as pure as a Curlew's melancholy cry.

The pace was tight and measured

As if each moment treasured

By a man who took his comfort from the magic in his hands;

His skills were years in making

Ten thousand hours back breaking

As a passion grew inside him that no layman understands.

No tricks, no ostentation

No frills, no decoration

Yet the veins upon his trunk-like arms were all but fit to burst;

Shirt soaked with perspiration

Eyes fixed with concentration

As if imprisoned by the talent with which he had been cursed.

He cast each fleece upon the ground

Amidst the unrelenting sound

Of dogs and sheep and buzzing shears, a noise that never left the ears;

His arm found a rhythmic groove

Hypnotic ease to every move

As seconds passed and minutes passed from hours into years.

The day was almost finished

Yet his art was not diminished

By the knowledge that his labours were nearly at an end;

For pride imbued his every action

He could not slacken by a fraction

Addicted to a lifestyle to which there is no mend.

 

 

 

 

 

The Heron

He was there,

Waiting,

I could feel him,

Obsequious,

As his haunted presence

Hunched over his patience.

Waiting,

In his morning tails,

Head dropped his between

His stooping shoulders,

Watching,

Slow in his shadows,

Waiting,

Letting them live their lives,

Carelessly.

Until,

Waiting over,

He fired

And left,

With a scream,

And a smile

On his face.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

I stumbled back nearly sixty years.

As the heady mix of engine oil and leather

Threw me back into the benchseat

Alongside the old farmer.

A giant of a man

As dour as he was big

Who gripped the wheel with massive fists.

And stared out far beyond his field of view.

I knew better than disturb his practised silence

And craned my neck to see over the polished bonnet

Lining up the silver emblem

As my Spitfire's gunsight.

My game and his peace

Were broken by a sickly crack

And in the instant that it hit the glass

I caught its screaming eye.

The old man said nothing

As we rolled to a clumsy halt

And pulled himself stiffly from his seat.

The late evening sun cast his shadow forty feet.

He stooped and lifted the tiny form

Lost in his callused hand

And a fragile tear splashed

Silently on the dusty road.

 

 

 

 

 

The Kick

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Surrounded by the Cheviots

A soaring sun and diving Peewits

The clipper rigged his gear with a master's expert eye;

Blades sharpened with affection

Each caught a bright reflection

As perfect and as pure as a Curlew's melancholy cry.

The pace was tight and measured

As if each moment treasured

By a man who took his comfort from the magic in his hands;

His skills were years in making

Ten thousand hours back breaking

As a passion grew inside him that no layman understands.

No tricks, no ostentation

No frills, no decoration

Yet the veins upon his trunk-like arms were all but fit to burst;

Shirt soaked with perspiration

Eyes fixed with concentration

As if imprisoned by the talent with which he had been cursed.

He cast each fleece upon the ground

Amidst the unrelenting sound

Of dogs and sheep and buzzing shears, a noise that never left the ears;

His arm found a rhythmic groove

Hypnotic ease to every move

As seconds passed and minutes passed from hours into years.

The day was almost finished

Yet his art was not diminished

By the knowledge that his labours were nearly at an end;

For pride imbued his every action

He could not slacken by a fraction

Addicted to a lifestyle to which there is no mend.

He was there,

Waiting,

I could feel him,

Obsequious,

As his haunted presence

Hunched over his patience.

Waiting,

In his morning tails,

Head dropped his between

His stooping shoulders,

Watching,

Slow in his shadows,

Waiting,

Letting them live their lives,

Carelessly.

Until,

Waiting over,

He fired

And left,

With a scream,

And a smile

On his face.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

I stumbled back nearly sixty years.

As the heady mix of engine oil and leather

Threw me back into the benchseat

Alongside the old farmer.

A giant of a man

As dour as he was big

Who gripped the wheel with massive fists.

And stared out far beyond his field of view.

I knew better than disturb his practised silence

And craned my neck to see over the polished bonnet

Lining up the silver emblem

As my Spitfire's gunsight.

My game and his peace

Were broken by a sickly crack

And in the instant that it hit the glass

I caught its screaming eye.

The old man said nothing

As we rolled to a clumsy halt

And pulled himself stiffly from his seat.

The late evening sun cast his shadow forty feet.

He stooped and lifted the tiny form

Lost in his callused hand

And a fragile tear splashed

Silently on the dusty road.

 

 

 

 

 

The Kick

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

I stumbled back nearly sixty years.

As the heady mix of engine oil and leather

Threw me back into the benchseat

Alongside the old farmer.

A giant of a man

As dour as he was big

Who gripped the wheel with massive fists.

And stared out far beyond his field of view.

I knew better than disturb his practised silence

And craned my neck to see over the polished bonnet

Lining up the silver emblem

As my Spitfire's gunsight.

My game and his peace

Were broken by a sickly crack

And in the instant that it hit the glass

I caught its screaming eye.

The old man said nothing

As we rolled to a clumsy halt

And pulled himself stiffly from his seat.

The late evening sun cast his shadow forty feet.

He stooped and lifted the tiny form

Lost in his callused hand

And a fragile tear splashed

Silently on the dusty road.

 

 

 

 

 

The Kick

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Clutching the ball deep within his maw

His frame hanging from angled shoulders

He stepped up to his destiny

With all the careless confidence

That comes to those with nature’s gifts.

He plunged his heel deep within the English earth

And set his ball upon a crown of turf,

Then drew his arm across his face

And turned his back upon his foe

Like some matador before a dying bull.

No fear, no doubt, no chance of failure

No stutters, stares or signs of manic ritual

His eccentric gait,

A style without peer

Took him towards the ball.

Head down, he hits it, lifts it, shifts it

Wobbles it between the posts

Between the English hearts

And with a single moment

Seals his place in history.

Dedicated to PC Brown, Rugby Captain of Scotland whose kicking helped Scotland to win the Calcutta Cup match against England in 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

The Letter

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Practised fingers slide,

Between the steel sprung jaw,

And mark a journey's end.

The slap on the cold tile floor,

Echoes 'round the house,

But no one moves.

A draught slips easily,

Beneath the heavy door,

And as bare feet stand,

The five intruders lie,

Fanned, 'poker-style',

With no eyes to give away the truth.

A glossed and gaudy postcard,

Filled with empty lines,

A promise of unsought riches,

And two brown, windowed bills,

Highlight a small, white,

Crisp cornered envelope.

Five parallel lines,

Placed dead centre,

In a neatly sloping hand,

Betrayed its innocence,

And it lies unopened,

Behind the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

The Organist

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Picture Frame

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Hands and feet pump

In uneasy unison.

Felt hat fixed in place

By a long steel pin.

Thick worsted woollen coat.

Holds back the cold.

Gloves and patent leather handbag

Carefully positioned by the seat.

You turn occasionally

Towards the pulpit

But only to check his progress

A message heard many times before.

The young minister

Feels your eye

Even when you stare ahead

And knows this place belongs to you.

Concealed amongst the artless goods

An old man caught my eye

Trapped behind the dusty glass

Too proud for such a fate.

Although heavier than it looked

I took pleasure from its weight

And turned the polished ebony

Smooth and cool to touch.

My finger caught the fragile hook

And six images fell

Face down upon the ground

I knelt and lifted each in turn.

And there, stolen from his mother's arms

Stood a kilted warrior

A volunteer for King and country

Full of innocence and hope.

The second struck a similar pose

His rifle replaced by a tiny bride

All Hollywood curls and austerity frills

But his eyes no longer smiled.

As I turned the third

A boy's face reflected his father's gaze

Brylcreemed hair and a reluctant smile

And the burden of his parents' dreams.

The same face forced a tired grin

Under mortar board and gown

With all the arrogance of those who achieve

At the expense of others.

The last of the hidden trove

Showed three tanned and handsome boys

And scribbled on the back

"Merry Christmas from us all in California".

The old man's photo had its message too

Sellotaped to the back as a yellowed cutting

Illegible now except for the words

"Bravely borne".

 

 

 

 

 

The playing field

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

We can all escape to places deep within our minds

Where memories are sharpened by the years

Where essence is distilled and unadulterated

And where movements slow and grow in grace.

This piece of ground,

This simple field of gloried pasture

Where each square foot has special meaning

For those who are here today

For those who are long forgotten

And those we have never known.

This is our canvas

Upon which to create our pictures

Spontaneous and inspired,

Accidental and deliberate

Each brushstroke gives depth and meaning

Take care of this land

For this is a work in progress.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silver Pillow

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Waves break over conifered ridges

Soundlessly spilling between standing hills

The three Eildons becalmed on a silent sea

Sink,

One by one,

No survivors.

Unless,

Like me ,

You stand above the inevitable shroud.

And then, without warning

My time has come.

It reaches up and round

Drawing me in.

The magic is broken.

The silver pillow claims another victim.

 

 

 

 

 

The Smith

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

With a steady rhythm you turned the handle,

Gave simmering sparks a life of their own.

The fire would light with a blazing yellow,

As you kindled the coals with a dragon's breath.

With your eyes all squinted from the devil's blast,

You'd reach into it's spluttering  mouth.

And with blackened tongs you'd lift the gold,

A sight to quicken any heart.

And then, like a thunderclap,

Ding dang the anvil rang!

And your arm flashed with a madman's fury,

As you reeled and danced around and ‘round.

Wide-eyed I'd watch you plunge the shoe,

And hear it screaming with the steam,

And the smoke would hang all round your head,

As you took the horse's weight.

And times you'd swear,

Beneath your breath,

"G'waa ye lang-nosed bugger!!"

As a stubborn nag would set it's weight against your back.

And through all this the folk would sit,

From Old Keig or Auchnagathle,

"Whit news o Pitnies' aullest loon?" they'd ask the Smith.

And chat and joke and laugh till noon.

And hours would slip by.

It had always been,

For one-hundred and sixty years,

Father to father.

Until the tractor,

Severed the navel-cord.

                                            In memory of my grandather shoeing his last horse

 

 

 

 

 

The Teacher

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Passing through elongated hours

Like a flat spinning stone,

Skimming across the surface,

Touching down and lifting off.

Sleeping with our eyes open.

Busily doing nothing.

He knew,

And we knew he knew.

Catching us as we sped by,

Pulling us down into his world,

Confronting us with ourselves,

Looking out through our eyes.

Speaking to me, speaking to us,

Thirty simultaneous conversations.

He cared, cared that we didn’t

And smashed us about our heads,

Armed only with knowledge

And love for his subject.

An unlikely orchestra

He played us, coaxed us.

Daring us to stretch beyond our reach,

To see something for ourselves,

To see something of ourselves.

A seed planted, that grows still.

 

 

 

 

 

The Try

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

"This is great stuff"

The ball tumbles on the grass

"Phil Bennett covering"

The fragile figure pulls it to his chest

"Chased by Alastair Scown"

The dancer vanishes from the giant's grasp

"Brilliant..............oh that's brilliant"

Not once but twice

"John Williams............Bryan Williams"

Another heartbeat missed

"Pullin"

The ball slides from hand to hand

"John Dawes"

There's no way through

"Great dummy"

Hairs bristle on the neck

"David...............Tom David"

His headlong rush defies all laws of nature

"The half-way line"

An arm extends around a black back

"Brilliant by Quinnell"

Who lifts it from his toes and stumbles

"This is Gareth Edwards!"

He steals it from the air

"A dramatic start!"

Head thrown back in godlike flight

"What a score!"

A dive forever in slow motion

"Oh that fellow Edwards"

Mortality held at arms length

"If the greatest writer of the written word

had written that then no-one would have believed him."

with acknowledgements to Cliff Morgan

(Excerpts from Cliff Morgan's commentary of the 1973 Barbarians versus The All Blacks by kind permission of the BBC.)

 

 

 

 

 

The Word Measurer

 

He loved his work, measuring words

Turning them out from his heavy sack 

Where they tumbled on his oiled bench

A treasure to behold

And there,

He'd take a master's pause, 

Immersed in that moment

Of Eucharistic worship

Before committing to his choice

To gently lift the singled word

And place it on the scales,

Defining its dimensions with the finest calipers.

Then set between two kissing jaws

He'd ease a tempered file between

Each crevice, curve and corner

Careful of the joins, the unseen links

That only such an eye could see.

Carefully working through

Elongated adjectives

Square nouns, round verbs

The passive and perfective

The common and bizarre

Pairs and prepositions

Elegant adverbs 

Languid words that poured

As liquid honey

Were each an object of devotion

But one,

An empty, black and hollowed word

Refused his touch

Defiled his eye

And cast its spectre

To perforate his sack,

In thoughtless treachery,

Spilling all before it.

 

 

 

 

 

Threesomes

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

FBI, MI5, CIA

UDA, UVF, IRA.

Ph.D, MBA, B.Sc

SAD, PMT, HIV.

BEM, OBE, MBE

BMA, NUM, NUT.

REM, XTC, ABC

BBC, ITV, RTE.

GDR, UAE, USA

KLM, TGV, BEA.

MPG, TVR, MGB

SRU, PGA, MCC.

M&S, B&Q, MFI

HMS, HMP, HMI.

SNP, BNP, SDP

QED, OTT, RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Climb aboard my time machine

And visit moments where I’ve been

A smell, a sound a photograph

Each lead me down a different path.

True to Itself

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Are We at Liberty to Do?

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

The Ash grows where it drops

Unwanted and unyielding

But in reality an innocent

Which is always last to enter

And the first to leave,

Collapsing to the ground

On morning’s first chill breath,

Whilst the Alder sets its feet in water

A pioneer of forlorn ground

Only to be pushed out and forgotten

When all its work is done,

But the fragile Willow

Filled with its facade of grace and delicacy

Takes us in with pleasing eye

Whilst slowly stretching underground

And crushing all within its iron grip.

 

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Moment

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

Through my own reflection

I saw you standing there

An unexpected moment

I couldn’t help but stare

For in those fleeting seconds

I saw not a mother or a wife

Not a partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

I loved that simple moment

And have locked it in my mind

A treasure to be cherished

With others of its kind

Just to see you out of context

To escape from background noise

To be free from daily clutter

To see your smile and your poise.

So why does such a moment

Give rise to such a shock

Is it just that very closeness

Which can build a mental block?

Or has it more to do with living

Just keeping everything on track

The frantic bustle for survival

Makes it a problem stepping back?

So let me step inside that window

And take you by the hand

Let me catch that unexpected moment

And block the falling sand

And in those captured seconds

Hold not a mother or a wife

A partner nor a lover

But the heartbeat of my life

 

 

 

Waterfall

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Waves Against the Wind 


We are waves against the wind And have two ways to reach the shore

By keeping low we hide behind The crashing waves that lead the blind

But those who dare to rise and fight And lead the charge in selfless flight

Can bear their chests against the storm Their silver manes give god-like form

They shout and roar their battle cry Whilst lifting up their pennants high

Of danger they need take no heed And live their lives at reckless speed

On reaching shallows stand their height Before they drop their heads mid-flight

And crash and die and live no more Amidst those of us who slide ashore.

 

Black water flat

Slowly speeding

Bends its back

And silvers.

Bursting to break free

To fly alone,

To fall,

To float,

In soundless flight,

And land in gentle whispers,

Which join hands,

And shout their name

Against the silence

Of the wood.

Think

Who shapes our thoughts?

Talk

Who forms our words?

Walk

Who directs our steps?

Sleep

Who fills our dreams?

Smile

Who lifts our spirits?

Fear

Who stands in shadows?

Hunger

Who gives us food?

Cold

Who keeps us warm?

Love

Who says they care?

Life

Who takes our time?

 

 

 

 

 

Wild-eyed woman

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

Sitting astride your black and shining steed

1000cc Suziki

Something of the Navaho warrior squaw

You charge headlong,

Wild whoops and cries

No time for wheeling ‘round circled wagons

When deeds need doing

And tempus flies

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Elliot

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

You held your old friend on your knee

As a proud father would sit his child.

One hand draped over its shoulder

And the other absently tracing silent rhythms

On the ivory dots.

And as the fire roared

I sat with my brothers, quietly

Playing with our three day old toys

But keeping one eye on the dram

You slowly sipped.

And when at last you set it down

Our toys were soon forgot.

And the heat on our backs can warm me now

As I call the moment back.

You pulled open your magic box

And checked your fingers for the only time

Before setting them on a road

They'd travelled many a time before.

Your right foot never stopped

Taking on a life of its own

Not needing any thought

To mark the four eight time.

And the sound cut through

The layers of blue smoke.

As you took us to

"The Dark Island" and "The Sweet Lass o Bonn Accord".

And your eyes would dance all round the room.

And settle on us all in turn

Taking hold of toes and fingers

And into step we all would fall

And fairly come together.

Damn you John Logie Baird!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Assassin

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.

November sun

Knifes

With murderous ease.

Its horizontal blade

Slides,

Between the standing stones

Felling giants

With a smile.