Another numbered summer, over
plans packed away
watches wound
boots back on pavements
lawns forgotten

And the sun apologises
as it rises too late
and the cackling wind
reclaims his domain with a flourish.

Have a good day, boys -
see you at teatime.

We'll try our best
but there is a point
after which all our efforts
to convince you that the world is good
people are kind
and that you have every right to be here
can't counteract the flood that blasts forth
from your wretched night-spun home.

And the hope we offered
seems cruel
as it disappears from view.

One last thought, vanishing child -
try not to take anyone else with you.

In each other's heads
We all of us plant seeds
Some burst into roses
And some to tangled weeds.

He lies on his back
creaky bed, darkened room
and wonders how he would be
if he had chosen differently.

Mind goes fractal
like Russian dolls
he thinks outwards
but really in

Oh imagine!
Nerves tingle -
what an original thinker he is:
There must be millions
of alternative mes
in unreachable universes
and untold dimensions!

Of course,
if he weren't too busy
contemplating his navel
all he'd have to do to find them
is knock on his neighbours' doors.

"They say it's the tallest in the country, you know,"
the older man smiles.
His companion's eyes follow the trunk,
smooth and sheer, to the clouds
in wonder.
The topmost branches sway
and he feels himself adrift
beneath a giant mast,
sails flapping on the wind
as feathered cirrus fly through the blue beyond.

Just then a carriage bursts through the forest
causing them to leap from the path.
A bilious face glares out from inside.
"Mind out the ****** way
"Or I'll have you clapped in irons!"
scream the spit-spattered lips,
chins a-wobble petulantly above a too-tight collar.

"Begging your pardon, your grace,"
says the older man, doffing his cap and bowing
as the carriage careers on.

The young man is speechless with fury.
"*******!" he screams.
"*******!"
But the old man is clutching his sides with mirth.

"How can you laugh?
"That fat pig nearly killed us!"
The boy's agitation is making him dance.
"Clapped in irons for looking at a tree?"

"No, no," chuckles the older, "for looking at his tree!
"The height that leads our eyes
"Up towards heaven
"casts a long shadow over his wallet
"And the weight which fills us with awe and joy
"presses on his shoulders every day!
"Ownership is a terrible thing, my lad!"

And they make their way home,
free,
through the forest,
their forest,
laughing.

At 9:15 this morning
you hurt your brother and lied about it.
It was an accident!
He did it himself!
Every variation casting up a veil between us.

The victim, too young to lie,
brokenly identifies his tormentor
and I am speechless at the act
and the denial

But I remember.
I remember the impulse too well -
preserve yourself!
No-one saw, they can't be sure you did it.
The theatrical collapse into self pitying insistence.
I remember how easily
I could convince myself of my innocence
and the hopelessness of others' incredulity.
Ah, ugly times.

So I understand, but it still hurts.
Not because I can't trust you now.
Not because it seems like a moment ago
that you, like your victim,
had no inclination to deceive.
Not even because you must take me for a fool
to try it.

It hurts
because in the midst of the forest of wishes I have for you
one wish quietly crumbles:
the wish
that you
will be better than me.

Someone has defaced my library book.
Gone to the trouble of reading, pencil in hand,
ready should the opportunity arise again.
The graffiti is hilariously specific:
at every mention the author makes of England,
my fellow reader has added angry punctuation -
question marks, exclamation marks or,
at moments of presumed frustration,
simply scored the word through.
The book is by Kurt Vonnegut,
an American humanist
who would doubtless have sought to avoid such deep offense
but who would have had no earthly reason for imagining
that a Scot somewhere, years after his death,
would ignore the story,
the tragedy, the humour and the beauty in the prose
so fired up was he by his conviction
that Kurt should have written 'Britain' instead of 'England'.

You see,
proud Scots are often peeved
when the rest of the world pays as little attention to them
as they pay to the rest of the world.
So it goes.

Okay, we're all thinking it -
"Is that all the summer we're going to get?"
Here's the rain again,
wearily familiar.
But hey,
at least some things are constant.

Cauld-bluided, humphing ower the stark grey hills
Gowd een skinkle to an fro
Split tongue lappin at the wind-blown smells
Bog grass blackens whaur ye go
Smoke split shielings and the clammerin o bairns
Bone cracked mithers in yer wake
Heirt-scaud ruin fae the valleys tae the cairns
Driven by a drouth ye canny slake
Crib tale shapit unner creakin heather thatch
Howf born craitur o the nicht
Auld sangs spake aboot the maidens ye would ******
Fleggit bairns tae keep intil the licht
True? Naw, havers, juist the blaflum o wives
God nivver biggit ocht sae fell
But ae bairn crouchin in the ruins o its life
Can think o naethin else the tale tae tell
Blin, lost, forwandert fae the shattered faimly hame
Warslin wi fear tae unnerstan
White winds whistle as he gies the beast a name
And dragons whiles can take the form o man.

At the black bottom of the loch
layers of forgotten days,
long dead, long lost
stir

Though the surface is glass
ruffled by no wind
tideless, seeming safe,
wait -

At any moment
the rot of what was thought
safely buried, hidden,
may rise

And the deeper it was drowned
the bigger bursts its ghost
smashing the reflected sky
forever

My back is to the loch
I walk untroubled hills but wish
that I could turn, raise hands, shout
"Stop!"

And help you.
Only help you.
I wish
that I could help you.

I was dragged
out of trees, off ropeswings
away from friends
every single Sunday of my youth.
The big grey church
filled with frumpy hatted snobs
lit through windows covered
in incomprehensible verse
held neither wonder, peace nor fascination.
Long, agonising sits,
trying not to giggle with my brothers
and praying only for the ordeal to end
did little to fill me with reverence.

But there was a place.
There was a building in whose hallowed hush
I felt the truth of awe,
a place where universes were revealed,
imagination ignited,
questions answered clearly
and not with twenty tons of sludgy obfuscation.
The library.
I loved it even before I could read,
and afterwards, well -
it still seems incredible
that such a place could exist.

Time passes.
And the fact that the powdered old cows
can still fill the church each Sunday,
fill the collection plates,
sing their ****** songs and go,
while rows of empty shelves
gather dust in the ghost of the library
simply
makes me
want
to weep.

Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it

I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.

"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."

I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.

She was the face of the century.
We'd all believed the age of heroes was past
but she was the real thing -
brilliant, brave beyond belief and wise,
and the planet - the whole planet -
was proud to have her as ambassador.

And when the broadcast arrived,
proof that we had spanned the solar system
and set foot on another planet,
every Earthling eye gazed, every ear strained,
so as not to miss a word.

"..."

Martian sky.  Red dust.  Second transmission.

"...
"I know...
"I know you are watching me.
"I know that this is the moment,
"the moment you have waited for.
"Seven months ago I left you.  It's hard
"to hold your breath for seven months!"

Across the globe, people laughed and gasped.

"Seven months."

A pause.

"Seven months, and enough money
"To end poverty
"across most of the Earth."

Heads were scratched.
Where was this going?

"Well, everyone, here I am.
"I can see you, you know.  A star,
"A dot in the black - that's you.
"And that dot -
"Oh, that precious, beautiful dot!"

Eyes moistened.  Friends embraced.

"Where every speck of dust is a home
"for something.
"Where even the forgotten scrapings
"Of last week's dinner
"plays host to LIFE!
"Air to breathe!
"Water to drink!
"So many, many things to love!"

Thirty two seconds of silence.

"Why did you send me here?"

Fifty three seconds of silence.

"This is hell."

And with that
she placed the camera on a tripod
stood before it
and removed her helmet.

The once fierce eyes
quickly bulged and reddened
skin puckered and peeled,
frost scorched and suffocated
lips, best known for forming momentous words
turned first blue then purple
and blood flowed freely
from her nostrils.
She slumped, fell,
knocked over the camera.

End of transmission.

The whole broadcast had lasted just seven minutes.

She was already dead by the time we heard the first word.

Sixteen children watched
as I played a video of unimaginable horror.
The planet misbehaving
water turning into tumbling concrete
boats heaved up mountainsides
helplessness too small a word.

It is important
to bring the world into the classroom
and I put my misgivings aside
trusting the children to understand.

They had seen the images already,
could say 'Tsunami',
didn't laugh, though the scene was ridiculous.
I was proud of them.
Perhaps we will write to Japanese children
and wish them well.

Ten minutes later,
Harvey pushed Aaron off his chair
and all hell broke loose.

The happiest race
that ever lived
had a supreme deity
they called Ygrroxxblqnrrgubnipotrwwwwnququti
and because they could neither say
nor successfully think
his name
they put him completely from their minds
and got on with their lives.

Susi sees angels here and there
magical creatures are everywhere
I canny see them, I try and look twice
I kind of regret it, it must be nice

but I think
Why should I personify
my sense of wonder,
sense of wonder
I laugh beneath the starlit sky
with my sense of wonder
sense of wonder

Ewan sees reason in everything
knows you can measure pieces of string
and he is my brother I love and respect
and proof of the other we've never found yet

but I think
Why should I categorize
my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
I laugh beneath the starlit skies
with my sense of wonder
sense of wonder

And I salute you, one and all
who've seen the light, who've heard the call
I'll not dispute what you have seen
I'm just not certain what you mean

Susi's a human, as sweet as can be
and magic or not she's amazing to me
and whether we're born here blessed or alone
I hope that her angels will see her home

but still think
Why should I personify my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
I laugh beneath the starlit sky
with my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
sense of wonder

When did I stop looking for music
which would shatter my world view
colour the lines afresh
reach spiderstyle from dream to daylight
clatter from the heavens, incomprehensibly fresh

and start settling, instead,
for anything
which doesn't actively **** me off?

The shale abounds
above the pounding waves
with perfect snapshots
of a lost, impossible world

Images beyond the skill of sculptors,
ridged, spined and rippled
frozen in rock, of rock -
who could have guessed
how long the armour would protect?

And yet -
trilobites
who ruled the shallows
when dinosaurs were but a glint
in Pachamama's eye,
are dead, gone, passed over
in the battle for existence.

While in the boiling surf below,
the jellyfish
who still blithely ride the tides
insolently call:
"Good luck wi thae shells, boys -
"Bet yis'll be safe wi thaim!"
and disappear
in a bubble of translucent laughter.

Oh baby,
prepare yourself for a fitting tribute
at the hands of my lyrical ability.
I will rhyme effectively
much as a successful sportsman
might employ his talents
in order to win a tournament of some kind.
Indeed, my mastery of rhythm and rhyme
will be such
that you will find yourself very powerfully
attracted to me.

Girl,
you put me in mind of a famous celebrity
noted for her physical beauty.
If you were, let's say, a car,
you would be
a really good car.

The sort of car
I would wish to own and drive.

Not convinced?
Then let me assure you
that I can easily put paid to my rivals
by deploying the linguistic and musical prowess
which I believe I mentioned above.

Oh yeah.

Incidentally,
I would think nothing
of expending quite considerable sums
on nice things to give you.

That would be nice,
wouldn't it?

So, baby,
if these enticements are sufficient to stir your interest
in me
then I would be delighted
to exchange
contact details
or something.

Oh yeah.  Get down.

Part of the black magic
is broken.
Words
which flew free as starlings
are now tethered
to faces
and I can picture you writing,
redrafting,
chewing your pencils.
People;
just people.

Crisp clear light of a not-quite spring
picks out the round black bin
quietly digesting the stuff of yesterday
Discreetly concealing
the thrumming, busy business of decay

The next act is approaching
in which we find
that nothing is lost or wasted
and the audience sighs with relief

Hoping
that the mulch
of lost loves, discarded wishes
and broken beliefs
will prove as fertile
as the rich brown muck within
the round black bin.

"I believed I was right," he says,
then leaves.
Not escorted by guards -
no cuffs in sight.  Free
to make his next after-dinner speech
and pick up the fee.

Some may complain, protest
that this dog, unsleeping, may not lie
but others think "He did what he thought best,
"God knows, there's too little faith these days!"

Say it was politic.
Say it was a compromise,
the lesser evil.
Say even that it was unwise.
Admit that one man
cannot feel so many deaths
and so should not try.

But do not fly like a flag
a security of faith,
a surety of right
that ***** a nation
condemning
countless
howling
thousands
to a voiceless end.

If you still cannot see
that you might have been wrong
then you are unfit
to call yourself
human.

Every day
I'd see them headin aff
in that clapped oot old banger.
He'd nivver get it looked at -
thocht it'd run
on positive energy and a kind word.
If that were true
my fower year apprenticeship
and six year in the garage
wouldny be worth ocht, would it?
But would he come tae me?
He would not.

There they'd go -
the exhaust gruntin lik a vexed rhinoceros
an the fan-belt scraichin lik a banshee.
Ah couldae sorted that in unner an hour.

Ah seen him workin on it wance, mind -
thocht he wis fin'ly gonny change thae bald tyres
But naw,
he wis paintin' ****** flooers on the bonnet!

Ah kin see them yet.
Headin up the hill,
weans in the back,
cloods ae black smoke pechin oot the pipe.
Ah couldae fixed it.
Ah couldae telt them.
But ah didnae.

An they nivver made it hame.

After the fifty-seven-trillionth year
of my damnation,
I couldn't even remember
what had been so great
about my neighbour's ox.

High in the mountains the sunlight is hitting the snow
stillness turns to sound
White becomes crystal as water's beginning to flow, man, flow
seeking level ground
There stands a man with a hand to his ears
He is trying to learn from the water he hears
And he's watching it flow, he is wanting to know
what it means to him, but
Maybe this time a song about a river
is just about a river,
would that be so strange?
Water runs deep but it also runs shallow
and I dig the shallows today

Racing through highlands as if no tomorrow will come
time goes for a ride
The more that it carries the slower the water will run and run
flowing deep and wide
There stands a woman who can't get across
She is sad at the thought of the speed it has lost
And her hearts starts to stir, there is meaning for her
She is sure there is, but
Maybe this time a song about a river
is just about a river, would that be so strange?
Water runs deep but it also runs shallow
And I dig the shallows today

And you are a symbol, my love
You symbolise yourself to me
The stars are like the stars above
and the ocean's like the sea
I only want surfaces
let me believe my eyes

Finally losing identity, reaching the shore
watch what happens then
Water evaporates, flies to the mountains to pour and pour
all begin again.

My pulse is slowed by the tide
that sighs twice daily
over the sparkling mud,
a slow scatter of wading birds at its heels.

Inhale and brambles dot the hedgerow,
purpling our mouths -
exhale and the snowdrops are back,
advance guard of a trumpetting spring
as the circling bay holds the circling year
in its silver grey water.

Our house plays host
to dramas and dreams
but they are beautifully small
in the middle of this
and I have never been so at home.

The trees planted themselves decades ago
in preparation for our boys.
The sea rose and fell for shelled and pebbled eons
that there might be the perfect clatter
when Fergus leaps from the rocks and runs
into the waves
and if three cars go by
within an hour
we say, "Christ, it's busy today!"

This, and us, is home.

I always assume
that kids know how to be kids.
I'm sure we weren't taught the skills, were we?
No-one pointed to a tree and said,
"See that?  Climb it."
And if Craig or Chris or Jamie pointed a finger
and said, "Bang!",
no referee had to discreetly whisper
"You're supposed to fall down now."

But something as natural as breathing
is falling by the wayside.
These small humans aren't kids -
not like we were.
Company is a chore for them,
screen-seeking solipsists,
and I worry for their future, constantly.

If my six-year-old self
were to appear amongst them
he would stand, baffled,
full of useless power
Like Spiderman
on the Norfolk Broads.

I trained myself to hold my breath
beneath the surface of the nut-brown river
for three minutes and more.
My companions would watch
as I slipped from sight,
their own breath held as the seconds wore on.

Above and around them the riverbank was a lens
refracting a swarming jungle,
macaws paired and perfect splitting the blue,
tangles and torrents of green
and the liquid burble of oropendulas and caciques.
Why should anyone depart from this,
deliberately descend into the murk
for no more than a party-piece, a prank?

Because,
the river carried news,
the river throbbed with hidden life
it was the Andes and the ocean and all points in between
and down below the light and beauty
it was mine alone.

I hope one day
to write a poem
with no title
and no words
but I have a long way to go
before I'm good enough to try it

A swan splits the stillness of the old mill pond
in the long low light of morning
White frost has settled on the bank behind
and on a figure who is sitting
head held in his hands

He looks at the moon as it fades away
from silver into nothing
His breath hangs like mist around his old grey head
and his cloudy eyes aren't blinking

And he can't recall how he got here
or the world he left behind
and his tracks in the grass they are fading fast
from the ground and from his mind

His feet are in slippers and an old bath-robe
is hanging round his shoulders
His cheeks they are flushed as if he's safe and warm
though he couldn't be much colder
fading away

He may look foolish but he is no fool
for coming here today
For the cold grey bank becomes a time-machine
and the years just fall away
fall away

Annabel, the sun shines just for you
This moment here will make the year come true
And I can't believe my eyes
when you turn to me and smile
you take my breath away, that's what you do
In this gold, this gold
this golden afternoon

Now you strip and slip through the ripples of the old mill pond
And you laugh at the fact of the scandal in the town beyond
But if they could only see the way you laugh and look at me today
They'd be caught in the moment like you'd waved a magic wand
Oh Annabel my love

His son and his daughter are the first to hear
and they think it is a kindness
Long gone was the father they had known and loved
and this living loss they'd witnessed
Now they can rest

The men from the council say the pond must go
and they fill it in that winter
But ears to the ground you can still hear the sound
of a young man and his lover
as they laugh and swim together
in the golden summer weather
the way
they will stay
forever.

"You know,
I used to ask myself the same questions,"
said the old man
with a smile.

A scientist
on TV
was watching an abandoned bear cub
search for its mother.

The scientist knew
where the cub's mother was.

"I'm not sure
how much I should intervene,"
he agonised,
"or whether I should just
let Nature take its course."

As if
his kindest instincts
and his burning desire
and ability to help
were not some of Nature's
most glorious bits of work.

No-one told the snowdrops
that the world is coming to an end
that there is no sense in trying anymore
that darkness has finally defeated the light

And ignorant of the truth
they push once more
through the mould and grit
raising their heads above ground

Stopping me in my tracks.

Oh yes!  Things used to live here!
The wan Scottish sun used to warm us
and the endless pounding rain slaked thirst
and pumped like blood into new life and hope.
How did we forget?

And they change everything.
They change everything.
They return the world to the state they need it to be in,
they are nodding heralds of the coming supernova

which will happen
with us
or
without us.

Be careful with her
her heart is a balloon
and it wouldn't take much to pop it, doctor
Well I wait and shiver
and I pace this sterile room
after fifty years I can't have lost her

Well I was seventeen and she was twenty four
We were at a protest march against the Korean war
I can see her with her placard held aloft
An anger hard as ice but skin so
skin so very soft

Be careful with her,
that skin is paper thin
and it wouldn't take much to tear it, doctor
Oh please deliver,
don't let this pain begin
Fifty years, I can't have lost her

We never married though our parents thought we should
We knew that you couldn't improve on anything this good
Well traditions don't seem quite so foolish now
If you know of one to save her
won't you please just tell me how?

If this is twilight
then give me darkness
for I can see too much
No-one to turn to
No-one who knows me
and no-one there
no-one there to touch

Oh be careful with her
I never cared enough, I know
I need to tell her
I'm still so much in love

An old man
sits
alone.

Day 1
               Here's a fish.  Tuck in.

                   Thanks.  That'll feed me for today!
Day 2
                Since you like fish so much, here's a fishing net.

                 Oh!  Um, you know I'm actually a farmer.

                 Not anymore.  There's uranium in your land,
                  so it's mine now.  I'd take the net if I were you.
Day 3
                When are you paying me back for that net?

                 What?  I don't have anything to pay with!

                 Well, just give me all the fish you catch.  That'll do for now.

Day 4
                   Excuse me, sorry to trouble you,
                      but I haven't anything to eat now.

                  No problem!  I'll be glad to sell you some fish.

                  But I have no money!

                    I'll lend you some.  Here you go.

Day 5  
                    I'm afraid I need to repossess that net.
                     It'll cover the money you owe me, for today.
                  
Day 6
                   You don't seem to be giving me many fish anymore.
                   Have you forgotten our deal?

                  But I have no means of catching any!

                   Well look, see your neighbour?  He seems to have plenty.
                   If you were to, ah, borrow some
                   I would turn a blind eye.

Day 7
                    My neighbour has stolen all my fish!

                    The cad!  Tell you what, I'll sell you this gun.

Days 8 - infinity

                     More of the same.

"Dad!  DAD!"
The cry shakes the night
Shakes sleep from his father's eyes,
and spirits him to his side.

Sweating and trembling the boy points
to the corner of the room.
"There," he whispers, "right there!"

The father turns, befuddled, impatient
and sees nothing.
"You're okay.  It was a bad dream.
Lie down.
Night
             night."

But it wasn't a bad dream.
In the corner of the room
is a huge, glowing
                                       egg.
Light pulses from it
in living waves,
and his father must be blind to miss it.

Night after night.
"It's nothing.
Go back to sleep."

But night after night
the egg gets bigger,
and dad
               gets
                        smaller.

"Haw!  You!  Come back here!
Dinny walk aff while ah'm talkin ti ye!
Didjiz no ken we won a fight
a mere sivvin hunner year ago?
Are ye no impressed?"

Flower o' ****** Scotland.
Fighting and dying
for a wee bit hill and glen.
When will we see the like?
Every ****** day
an' Ah'm ******* seek o't.

See when we start lovin and livin
fur a wee bit hill and glen?
Then Ah'll get tae ma feet
an sing.

The real you went walking leaving me with someone else
We sat around and chatted telling lies about ourselves
For only killing time it didn't matter what was true
As we waited for the real you

Minutes turned to hours turned to days and turned to weeks
Nothing left to say but still we felt the urge to speak
The one who took your place began to grow, she grew and grew
As we waited for the real you

The real me went looking, sadly I was left behind
To formulate opinions and pretend a state of mind
We thought of words that matter, of love and hope and trust
As we waited for the real us

So here we are and here we're wasting time on what we've lost
Our real selves a notion from a disappearing past
And even though we wouldn't know them if they ever came
We'll go on waiting for them just the same

In early days, man strode
beneath wide wild skies
reading the landscape with understanding eyes,
forgetting the paths of the women and children.
Wood and hill he paced,
silent, stealthy, alone,
solitude his defence against idleness,
solitude the means by which the Earth spoke to him,
and the state in which experience, memory and thought
bred music, poetry and story.

Times change, of course
and I begrudge not one second
in your company.
But if I willingly submit
to being sounding board for your day's plans;
to being a climbing frame for the boys,
or to answering the question,
"What are you doing?" with smiling candour,

Then perhaps you can forgive me
if I happen to spend
more time than you
in the one room in the house
with a lock on the door.

The fact stalks through my brain,
weapons ready
to destroy the preconceptions
with which it disagrees.
My natural defences are bewildered,
programmed to allow it through
but dismayed at the havoc it wreaks
and the wreckage of belief.
Finally, its work achieved,
it hunkers down,
crouching like a spider,
defensive, fearful,
waiting for the day
when it, too,
is superseded.

The year the boys got their trampoline
All Dad got was a new shirt.
A nice one, mind - well made and warm.
He had it on as he put the trampoline together
(despite Mum's advice regarding working in new clothes)
and he was glad of its warmth as the boys
had their maiden bounce,
laughter making clouds
in the cold December air.

Tatty now, old and worn
in fifteen years that lasted a week, or less,
it's the same shirt keeping him warm
as he takes the trampoline apart
in the quiet, empty garden.

Through the passion, the anger
and the bold assertions
it may be hard to see
that I would rather not be talking about this

And the wider I spread my arms,
and the louder my voice becomes
the more I long for silence
and a solitude which asks no confirmation

Opinions are contagious
language, a game which you lose
by explaining that you don't want to play

And each concession I draw from you
each square of common ground we find
is one step further
from the hilltop I wish I was on
alone,
if you don't mind.

Marie, I remember the last time we met
it was right here in Paris and you were upset
by a big, burly Frenchman whose insolent tone
had reminded you how far you were from your home
"Now don't worry, darling," I said with a smile,
"We need only look out for ourselves for a while!"
But you angrily told me our love was a goner
unless I turned round and defended your honour.

Well the Frenchman in question was not a small man
he'd a dangerous eye and piratical tan
my nerve sprang a leak with no sign of a plumber
I started to shake like an aspen in summer
"No, no," I suggested, " - a coffee, and then
"We could stroll arm in arm on the banks of the Seine!"
But you stood and you shouted, demanding to see
how seriously you mattered to me
and shaking with rage you began to aver
I was less of a man than the nearest Pierre,
or Jean-Paul or Jean-Charles, or Pepe, or Jacques
you threatened to leave me and never come back
Well there's only so much that a coward can take
so I ******* up my courage and made my mistake.

I could see the man's back as he moved down the street
and I fondly imagined he beat his retreat
so I followed him down there to make the man see
what becomes of the ones who insult my Marie
But the colour drained from the Parisian crowds,
they seemed to be wearing funereal shrowds
I moved in slow-motion, caught the man's shoulder
He swung round and punched with a fist like a boulder
Planets and satellites buzzed round my head
then he danced on my rib-cage and left me for dead
But through the concussion I managed to see
You were standing beside him and laughing at me
Then taking his mutton-shaped fist in your arm
you helped him avoid an approaching gendarme
As darkness descended I managed to cry,
"Oh Marie, gay Paree will not be where I will die!"

Well it's taken me several years to recover
but I've traced you right back here, my treacherous lover
You're taking communion, don't know where I am
But I'm hunched at the back of the great Notre Dame,
And you cannot see me, but I can see you,
I'm not even sure what it is I will do,
but one thing is certain - revenge will be sweet,
You'll know how it feels to be left in the street
Losing consciousness under Parisian skies,
Oh Marie, gay Paree is the place where you will die!

So I creep up the aisle, approaching the altar,
my hands do not tremble, my steps do not falter
Clearing my throat, but before I can speak,
You spin on your heel and you wallop my cheek
where a stain starts to grow like the stain in the glass
And I stagger backwards and land on my ***
This cannot be happening, how could you attack?
You hit me again and I'm back on my back,
Now standing above me, a gleam in your eye
Oh Marie, gay Paree,
Oh Marie gay Paree is the place where I will ........

The strange thing is,
it wasn't there on the day.
I'm sure of it.
Ben MacDui, April, 1993:
cloudless, blue, glorious.
Three boys out from the city,
out from the flat grey sprawl,
shouting and laughing
into the giant empty sky.
We were there by the grace of two kind men,
teachers,
who knew of greater things
than the classroom had to offer.

But now,
looking back,
the cloud has descended.
For every three of my footsteps,
one chilling, giant crunch rings out
in restless pursuit.
Shadows are cast across clouds
that simply were not there
and an unconditioned joy cowers
beneath the brocken spectre,
the Big Grey Man that followed
unseen, unguessed, and uninvited.

In the instant of creation
I am a channel of pure light,
translating truth from some wordless space,
forming the formless
and joyful at the privilege.

But then,
the thing clutches me
and demands attention
like an ill-bred child.

"Look, just go!" I beg it,
and off it scampers
but keeps returning
with news
of its own imperfection
and my poor craftsmanship.

Then it crouches on my shoulder
as I inspect the work of others
and whispers triumph at their failures
and hatred at success.

Until I start to fear beauty,
***** my eyes shut
and cover my ears, ashamed
of what it breeds in me.

We lay on a single bunk,
gazing at each other under African sunlight
not yet lovers, but going that way.

"You're beautiful," she said after a while
and I believed her
but wanting to give her credit
for all that was good in me
I replied,
"It's a reflection!"

                     Except -
Despite my tan,
despite the rainbow racket of  parrots outside,
despite my travel-broadened mind,
I still carried a heart
nurtured in Aberdeen,
that grey-granite reservation in North East Scotland
where true emotion may only be expressed
after fifteen pints and a dram.
                So,
by way of a padded brown envelope
in which to hand over this pure, unselfish thought
I said it
in a silly voice.

These days she doesn't even write.

Me?  I'm married
to a woman who finds me
kind of funny looking
but in an agreeable way.

It's a reflection.

I was walking on the seashore when I heard a fearful cry
I looked out across the water where a man was drifting by
"You've got to help!" he shouted, "There's a lifebelt in your reach,
"If you throw it to me quickly I'll get back onto the Beach!"
I hastily began to do exactly as he said
When a little word of warning made its way into my head.

"You reckon this will help," I said, "that is what you believe,
"But to trust short-term solutions here is hopelessly naive.
"You think the belt will save you, and for now maybe it would
"But to teach a faulty lesson here could do more harm than good
"You want something for nothing and that just is not the way
"In the sophisticated economic climate of today -
"You need trade!  You need trade, not aid
"You need trade!  I can't help until you've paid.
"You say that you're in trouble and my help is all you need
"But a culture of dependency is all that it would breed!"

"What's wrong with you, you maniac?" he answered with a yell,
"I'm drowning in the ocean and there's nothing here to sell!
"We can talk about your theories when I'm back upon the shore
"Now just throw the ****** life-belt out, I beg you, I implore!
"You have it in your power and you know that if you can
"You've a moral obligation to assist your fellow man!"

I told him, "You are selfish!  This is difficult for me,
"D'you think a drowning person is a pleasant thing to see?
"You shouldn't be in the water if you haven't learned to swim!"
He said "You no-good lousy *******, it was you who pushed me in!"
Well this kind of moral blackmail made me look at him, aghast
And say, "There really is no virtue here in dwelling on the past,
"You need trade!  You need trade, not aid
"You need trade!  I can't help until you've paid.
"You say that you're in trouble and my help is all you need
"But a culture of dependency is all that it would breed!"

"Don't be so pessimistic," I advised him, "you are rich!
"The sea in which you're drowning must be lowping full of fish!"
"If that's what you're relying on," he said, "to judge my wealth,
"Then you know that I have nothing, 'cos you caught them all yourself!"
I said, "Well, you can't argue with the laws of competition
"You were wasting time by drowning when you should have been out fishin'!"

When finally he died I said, "My brother, I will miss you,
"But maybe more importantly, you've highlighted an issue:
"Drowning is a problem, and believe me, now you're gone,
"I'll be on the phone to Geldof, Ultravox and Elton John.
"We'll organise a concert so that everyone can see
"That drowning is a menace, we should make it history!
"Using trade!  Using trade, not aid,
"Good, free trade, the grestest plan we've ever made,
"You say that you're in trouble and my help is all you need,
"But a culture of dependency's a rotten thing to breed!"

Blaming Jesus
for Christianity
is like blaming Robin Hood
for the Soviet Union.

My heart
is a field of tinder
and one thought is the match

Step back -
the thought approches -
the whole **** place could catch!

Red hair,
quick smile
and arms open wide enough for me,
for me.

My heart
is a field of tinder.

What hollow, caustic foulness lies behind the neatly edged hedges,
fences, plastic window frames and glass?
Resting, waiting to be woken, scream what now must not be spoken
Blood-lust of a gutless middle class
What simple lies must needs be told in bold authoritative tones
To activate the drones and make them fight -
To know, that if the call should come they'd march to that benighted drum
And sacrifice intelligence for right?
How big a monster must be built to shoulder guilt for every creeping fear
and insecurity and loss,
Till every hip and critical disclaimant finds a reason for believing
and then carries it, across.
How many layers must be stripped to tip the wretched shreds of indecision
into morals blown apart
And harmless bigot who, at work, was tolerated with a smirk
Now drives a dirk into a stranger's heart?
Now doctor, teacher, business leader, well-respected educated man
proclaims his harmlessness anew,
Make no mistake: the quills are fine and ready as the porcupine
prepares to show what harmless beasts can do.