Scottish Winter taps on the window
Though September will gentle us.
Hopeful curtains stay open.
I feel the catch of damp in my throat.

I understand gulls a bit more this year.
They wake me with there shoulds and musts.
Unlike the geese which quicken overhead,
We share a rooftop,
Can look each other in the eye.

On Mothers day
Sunlight glints on frosty roof slates.
A Seagull launches from a chimney stack.
A line of pink foot geese spread along the top of a cloud
Part of the weather system and defying the wind.

This is the day my Father was born.
In a dream last night, I consult him.
Tripping through a canvas tent curtain
To where he sits with papers spread out on the floor.
He advises well. Keep it simple. Keep it small.

This is the day my husband left
Forever forewarned as a difficult date in my diary.
And in the dream, my Mother takes her own life,
As did her Father before her.

On this day life gives me
Gifts of affection and
Undying support
From Women past yet present.
And from the female present. Baton passed.
Who present candles and flowers
Give blessings and
Unceasing love
From a womb with unfathomable depths.
I thank you sweet ladies
For all your Mothering
Strong like iron and
Tender like a feather.

In an ivy clad fortress
Fallen render reveals the outline of a bird.
Drawn in pink plaster,
Master of mortar.
Trapped in the brick.
Safe though from this gale that stirs us up today.
It sits looking East
Towards the sea.

There the clatter and hum of sail bells
On Camberly Sands renders seagulls quiet
Devoid of a landing platform and
Lost for words.

Then crows
Cry collaboration.
A nation of black wings against
A clear sky.
Like solid drums unbeaten
By time and weather.

Feathers,
The Weather,
Kestrel on a breeze
Trees, falling leaves.

When life holds its breath.
Breath.
Feet on sand,
Your hand on my side.
The tide music of waves.

Grasses.
Sunglasses.
Ring-neck doves.
All my love.

I saw you cross the road
We call you badger
You are low to the snow that lays on the tarmac

A joy knocks at the soles of my feet
It bejewels me,
Alives me
Gifts and
Brings me present.

By the Findhorn river where no man is standing,
Theres a white post of a station, called Heron.

We watch the jumpy water, iced up at the edges
Its flow caught in cold.

Heron in stealth and I in peace for a while.
On different banks, and I am a hunter of sorts.

We see a mammal movement,
An otter. Athlete and champion.
We surrender to its wild catching.
It's thrash ends our hunt.

Heron flies to my bank.
We shift to audience,
These small moments
A wordless solution to trouble.

I go to your garden to plant trees
A nice day sings itself into being.
As we welly-up
A woodpecker arrives
On wavey flight.
Gets busy on a rowan branch
Its smart black, red and white message
Stops us
Like a catchy short story.
Holds us softly
In a glue of wonder.