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.

Tours depart at 7.30,
in time to reach the office by 9.
En route, keen-eyed travellers
search faces, gaits
and speculate on destinations.
There are no prizes
but you will experience a cold satisfaction
with every success.
Most prized
are the ones who hide
behind a guise of bluff normality.
It takes a real expert
to catch the tiny glint of fear,
the too-quick reflexive start
at any human contact,
the unwillingness to meet the gaze
of their own reflections.
But persevere
and you too can add to your list.
The longer your list
the less likely you are
to appear
on someone else's.

Three times now
when I have sought solace in solitude
over the headland on the rocky shore
I have displaced my insistent inner voice
with a simple quest:
"I will find a starfish".

And each time I have done this,
gingerly rockhopping away from it all
towards the kelp-caressed wavelets
I have found one
under the first stone I turn over.

But no matter how diligently
I continue the search
I have never found a second.

A countless headed monster
rampaged through the village yesterday
smashing everything in its wake
befouling the water
and devouring my whole family
in its slathering jaws.

It really was no consolation
that it brushed its teeth afterwards.

There was something wrong with the sky today
in the melancholy cold September sun.
Frost sculpted clouds hung in the empty blue,
bereft, uncelebrated

The swallows are gone.
No more exalting
in our wet summer
unfettered by earthbound grumbles:
now they scythe the skies
to Africa
leaving us completely behind.

A white-spattered woodshed -
over-bold insects -
and perhaps
the promise of return.

You lie on your back in the meadow
the big yellow blue in your eyes
You're golden, unfolding and gath'ring
the love of the limitless sky
And there's no need to fear
that this feeling is one that will pass
As your fingers entwine
in the dandelion shimmering grass
And they're sensing a message encoded within
the language of everything
And you're searching serenely for symbols
In the breath of a butterfly's wings

Now the sunlight is scattered and shattered
by the broken grey blade at your side
And your banner is ****** and tattered
Though you cannot remember just why
And your eyelids descend
Your features are soft with a smile
You breathe out and in
with the simple regard of a child
And you know as you go that as one story ends
another one surely begins
And you're searching serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings

Now you've happily danced in this pattern
for as long as you care to recall
There's a tapestry tangled around you
that you've barely affected at all
And you're taking your leave
as a cloud dissipates in the sky
And you don't even ask
why a tear trickles down from your eye
Yes you cast the thought out, there is no room for doubt
when you're hearing the fat lady sing
And you're searching serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings

Now the sun can be gentle and loving
the sun can be angry and fierce
And it is what it is in the instant
That it glints in a dying man's tears
You go when you go
you depart from the path you create
And you know what you know
in the moment you know it's too late
In your peace and your bliss it was easy to miss
all the people who pulled on the strings
As you searched so serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings
As you searched so serenely for symbols
in the breath of a butterfly's wings.

There's a commotion
on the top deck of the bus.
Lost in thought
I take a moment to register
as an old gent stands up and says,
"Does anybody ken that wee boy?"

I look to the street below,
and there you are,
proud, red-faced and beaming.
You'd caught up with the bus
on your scooter
just to wave me away
one last time

Your grin has lit
every face around me
as you catch my eye, delighted.
Brimming
with a simple love
I wave back
and we pull away.

The bus may leave you behind
but I carry you with me
through streets all bright
with your presence.

Halfway up a mountain
on an ice-bound January day,
I sought to reliquify
a few calorific assets.

I am no fool -
I had been carefully investing
a portion of each meal
in certain holdings
(mainly around the waist).
Of course, I knew the safe route:
balanced diet, carbs, fruit, veg;
but a venture nutritionist such as myself
pays little heed to such extravagant prudence.

Fried breakfasts looked like offering
a quick and reliable payoff
and sure, for a while it worked.
But guess what:
Just when I needed the big windfall,
nothing.
Not a sausage,
if you'll pardon the pun.

"Sorry," a regretful body explained,
"I know you'd think you could call on your investments
"at the drop of a hat,
"but actually they're kind of clogged,
"a bit like your arteries."

Wheezing, waiting
for the mountain rescue helicopter,
I spared a rueful thought
for the taxpayer -
the reluctant buyer
of my safety.

You might imagine I owe something in return,
but I watch the news
and I reckon
I'll get away with it.

Eulogising was a challenge
under constant bombardment
from falling masonry.
But the gathered crowd deserved the effort.
There was Honest Bob,
whose cut-price bricks
had won the tender
and built the edifice behind us.
Slick ****, the concrete king
fresh from an industrial tribunal
and ready to pay tribute.
Fat Larry, the glass magnate,
dodging the shrapnel
from his wind-shattered panes,
just like the rest of us.

I raised my voice
amidst the crash and crumble
to praise the architect.
There were those who had forgotten
the terrible designs
that had been *******
by her dogged determination,
Her clarity of vision
(here, I was interrupted
by three roof-tiles in succession,
smashing at my feet),
her strength of purpose
(nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering)
and her shining conviction.

But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass,
we could all acknowledge
her unforgettable legacy
with pride and gratitude.

Champagne, truffles,
and off we all went,
helicoptered to who knew where
happily leaving others
to clear up the mess.

Oh my
how they flap and slither
shades of shades of
ghastly crassness

Haven't harnessed
their atoms' fickle spins
spilling, instead,
through the strong and wise and deserving
befouling their blood

Gulping and gaping their own small slice of evil
while we will guard ours
in cages of guilt and fantasy

Spill then
spill slickly,
sick, stupid spectres
You strengthen my bars
beyond imagining

"So, gentlemen," begins the chair
"Our star property is developing.
She's past the stage of 'Girl Next Door' charm,
and we need to know
how to sell her new album.
Suggestions?"  A silence.

"I know," says one, "she's very keen
on stage and theatre.
Perhaps a Shakespearean theme?"
There are murmurs,
but little enthusiasm.
Another pipes up.
"I understand she has an interest in ecology.
Could we be thinking nature?  Conservation?"
"I think not," says the chair, "though the subtexts
in her songs are clear.  No,
we're missing something obvious.
There HAS to be a way."

Chins are rubbed,
heads scratched.  Ideas rejected thick and fast -
Literature?  No.
Politics?  No.
One points out her skill as a painter,
but it is felt that art can be rather subjective.

At last, one young turk
slowly pushes his chair back,
the light of inspiration on his keen young face.
All eyes turn to him in anticipation
as he slowly stands,
spreading smile and spreading hands.

"I've GOT it!" he cries.
"Why don't we market her as a galloping *****?"

The board room collapses
in ecstatic applause,
and the young man seals his fate
as the label's next creative director.

So many of us
beaten, heart-wrung care
we share
our hopelessness
our impotent despair
our seismic horror
mounting terror
as nations pile mistake
on fatal error
How do we act
as casualties mount
how do we hold our blighted leaders
to account

We trawl through history
and weakly portion blame
make claim on pointless claim
to show that we began this game
That this was us, and that was them
but all this does
is set the process off again
And little comfort,
stating that we cared
in lieu of just confessing
we are scared

Scared that in the loneliness of night
a sneaking voice
might say this choice was right
that self-defense
is justified
that editors and leaders
can't have lied
that evil really stalks us,
really walks our streets
plots our defeat, prepares
to hoist black flags
into the air.

It does, and always has.
The name may change
but nothing of this crisis
is so strange.
Cry anarchy, revolt
pledge blood to the republic
**** the vote
don masks and balaclavas,
meet in shade
believe this is the place
where deals are made
And soon, to fan eternal conflagration
someone will bring a god
to the equation,
proclaim a nation,
proclaim the right of judgement,
who should live
and who should die
And in the dancing flames,
raise eyes
to thank the empty,
mindless sky.

But what is worst,
among the frantic, wretched cries
is that our comfort
lets us view it with surprise
our safety, compromised
exposes this malignant myeloma -
we feel that we
should never die.
We should not suffer,
should exist
in numb, eternal safety,
empty bliss
no cold, no hunger,
conflict frowned upon
All struggle gone -
we should go on
and on
and on.

But breathe.
Feel echoes, ripples, tremors -
close frightened eyes
and just remember -
this is the road that we are always on
We found it on arrival,
leave it when we're gone
but our survival
is unhindered.
While fools break splinters
from its rugged bones,
we still lay bigger, stronger stones.

This is the world.
Love fiercely, dare
to shout in anger,
weep in care, do all you can
to help your fellow woman,
fellow man
to shatter walls, to build
together, better, wiser things
Prepare
to sacrifice, to will a world as one
and know that evil done
can be undone

Do not succumb
to cold, immobile fear
but shout, in righteous fury,
"We are here!"

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.

It came from small beginnings.
A shaken woman left her car, engine still running
To see whether or not she had killed the rabbit.
Soft and broken it lay, and she wept, when suddenly
The rabbit drew its final breath
And spoke.
"Don't worry," it said.
"You humans, you're too sentimental!
"You should know, we admire you so much
"That it is a great honour to die at your hands
"Or through the speed of your magnificent machines!"

The woman was startled.

The phenomenon spread around the globe.
In the middle of the South China Sea
A fisherman was greeted by a cheer from his catch.
"Well done!  Well done!" they cried.
"Next time use a smaller mesh, you'll catch more!"

In a chicken battery in Idaho, a young labourer
Whose conscience was troubling him
Almost fainted when 60,000 chickens sang
"For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" and thanked him for his kindness.

"We are here for you!" said a turtle, choking on a plastic bag.
"You have dominion - use it with pride!" cried a pack-laden donkey.
"We are nothing without your interest - catch us, keep us, eat us, please!"

Tabloids were quick to react.
"One in the eye for the Animal Liberationists,"
said the Daily Mail.

For 24 hours the animals spoke
and then they stopped.
And because their voices
had been strained and strange,
feather muffled and furred,
wrung from throats with no vocal chords
It was impossible to be sure
Whether or not
they were being sarcastic.

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.

"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.

No, no, no,
that's not how it happened at all.
Precocious children
have never been afforded that much influence
and Emperors, then as now
are largely unafflicted by shame.

And it's a good thing too
- why, if the story had gone
the way Anderson had it,
neither I nor any of the men of the town
would have our jobs
at the Magic Cloth factory

You do realise
that the trade in Magic Cloth
supports all the world's major economies now,
don't you?

Nor would the aristocracy
look half so stylish,
sashaying hither and thon
in the glorious altogether,
applauded by the taste-makers
and notably contemptuous
of child-like observation.

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.

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.

He had never realised
that everything was moving
until it stopped

One pill
and the joyous ramshackle journey
dug claws into the soil
and froze

and turned

The things he had known as trees
began to bend
to curl towards him
gnarled eyes glaring,
tendrils groping

The dog, his faithful companion
rose painfully on two legs
grew shoulders, arms
bared fangs and snarled

Rocks rose from snoring mountains
to grind their ancient jaws at him
and the sea folded in on itself
in disgust

Paralysed he stared
as the sky climbed down
defeated
and the sun pulled back
its shining mask
to show the grinning, vengeful skull beneath

Nothing could touch him
but all could see him
exposed, brutal, foolish, ridiculous
and desperate, desperate

for death.

The jackdaws shared
their plans with me
in silver glances,
subtle gestures
quiet but relentless

The plans
were appalling
horrific
inhuman
and yet
made perfect sense

I bore
the burden
home
began to pack
but stalled
midway

There really is
nothing for it
but to wait.

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.

After the act,
where do you go?

Plans, meticulous plans
executed expertly.
Comrades martyred,
wheels in motion,
all is as expected.

But you.
Commander no more.
Comrade no more.
Those who groomed
and trained you,
are on to fresher meat.

Hunted, hated
you run,
but where?

Me, I could trust
to bold humanity:
could hope for help
in darkest need.
This is simply
what we do.

But you are broken,
and I wonder:

Does your faith warm you
in ditches?
Do rain and hunger fade
in the light
of your great sacrifice?

At three a.m.
does the fact that you,
like any fool,
can **** with a gun,
compensate for barred doors,
cold windows,
closed faces glazed
in baffled fury?

No touch
but a fanatic's.
No love
unchained by dogma.
No hope.

My poor brother.
No hope.

So the call goes out:
every priest, imam, rabbi, shaman
gets the same message.
Comes to them like a dream,
but there's no denying it.

"That's it then, folks,"
goes the mesage,
"If you haven't got it by now,
you never will.
We're off -
You're on your own.
B'bye."

And it's followed by this hollow ringing,
the great screaming emptiness
of space.

So of course they get together,
discuss what's to be done.
And the funny thing is how quickly they decide:

"Suppose we'd best
just carry on as usual, eh?"

"Suppose so, aye."

Which is why
you never knew
this had happened.

It's fifteen years
since I let Jack fall.
I am unforgiven
by a wife who wasn't there,
who didn't see what happened
and who will never understand.

And nor will I, of course.
That slow-motion slip
from crested cliff to vanishing
replays before my desperate eyes
each night,
and each night I am as frozen
as on that wretched day.
A harmless walk gone awry
and a family forever shattered.

He was within my reach.
Another day I would have caught him,
effortlessly.
Another day I would have walked cliffside,
keeping him to the thrift-speckled verge,
soft and safe.
Another day we would have walked a woodland trail instead.

I don't know why that day
was the day I was distracted,
the day my reflex failed me.
I don't know why my brain misfired,
conscious enough to watch in horror
but not to propel me forward.
Sometimes we catch the cup as it topples,
sometimes we watch it spill to the floor.
Moments of blissful skill
followed by moments of dumb helplessness.

It was no cup that fell that day.

To her, though, there is no general flaw.
There is no explanation in biology,
no hormone or synapse to be blamed.
There is only me.  Her husband.
Jack's father.

There are no two sides to my coin, now.
There is only the man who let him fall.
She stays: she is dutiful.
But I could catch every falling cup,
remember to lock every door,
make never another mistake,
and he will still be dead
because his father was a careless man.

Ten years before Jack fell,
I,
a cautious man, untutored in love,
saw a beautiful girl
and inexplicably threw caution to the wind.
Another day I would have turned aside.
Another day I would have stammered my invitation,
lost my nerve.
But for that mysterious moment
There would have been no Jack,
and we would never have experienced
a limitless, all consuming love
which all the pain in the universe
can never staunch
or dim.

It was so constant in my youth.
It breathed through my childhood,
totally unnoticed, taken for granted
like motherly love
or hot water on tap.

Just there -

there when the curtains were closed
on the city-lit night;
there at the breakfast table;
on the long walk to school.

But time passed, and it troubled me.
Where had it come from?
What was it for?
Did everyone have one?
And these musings turned delicious,
colouring idle moments
with all the shades of sunset,
and the doubt became bigger
than the thing itself.

At last there was no room,
no time for the questions,
no time for the Okker,
and with no warning
it was gone.

First time I rode my bicycle by myself
I thought my father was still pushing me
and by the time I noticed he was not
I didn't need him anymore.
And so it was, now,
coasting onwards,
busy without mystery
and content with the visible.

I knew people who scorned seekers,
but I didn't.
I remembered, paternally indulgent,
the hours I had spent
swimming in the deep cool pools
of uncertainty
to arrive at my current quiet wisdom
and I understood.

Or so I thought.

Fifteen years dead, but
Last night, something -
the sound of crickets in a film,
the smell of cut grass on an open window breeze,
a picture on page 136
of a childhood book - something
woke it up.  

And now smoke
is filling the room
blotting the windows
filling my eyes, ears and lungs
malignant, demanding,
but full
of terrifying joy.

They had faces and bodies when I was young,
and they were rare -
Maybe once a year, a joke would be ruined
by a walking sneer,
my unselfconscious laughter curdled
by their pitiless scorn.
But, young and sure, I'd bounce along,
leave them forgotten,
and look for the good.

Blessed to expect
that people were kind,
I unshackled them,
disembodied the derision,
unhitched them
from reasoning, living beings

Left them free to gather
in geometric clusters
lurking on the edge of sight
like burning after-images
of a cruel sun

Wordless, sightless, lifeless
empty, ******* spaces
glimpsed with a shudder
on the best days -

gathered in consumptive clouds
on the worst.
Unseen by my companions
they eat my ability
to explain or expel them.

They are there
if I acknowledge them
or not
and in time
they make a nothing
out of everything.

Hunting has a noble heritage, for sure
Bringing us together, it forged a species
Keen-eyed, communicative, feared by the fierce

               So who am I to begrudge you your sport?
I, too, love wide open skies, tramping over bog and fen,
I even quite like dogs!

I imagine nature might reveal herself to you
In signs jealously guarded from the armchair carnivore.
I can almost reconcile your harsh percussion
With the croak of the raven, the sloshing tide
And the chewing and mooing of cattle.

But the pheasant!  For the love of God, the pheasant?
It can hardly be a battle of wits!
I've seen him as he sits, a big, red bullseye
On fences and *****,
Startled by every day he survives.

How stirring can it be,
Picking off the ones the cars and lorries never got?

When you carry him home,
Better off dead,
Hang him in your garage for a week
Feeling like Henry VIII,
Cut him down, slit him open and find the crop
Stuffed not with heather shoots and beetles
But with half a pound of store-bought grain
(Generously laced with antibiotics) -
I hope the realisation creeps up
That you may as well have asserted yourself
In the hen coop,
Blasting away at befuddled poultry
And saving yourself a walk.

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

I created a ray to save the world.
We had come too far,
had lost ourselves, it seemed to me
and we were taking the Earth along with us
into the abyss.

Too much knowledge: too much thought.
We needed to go back.
And so I created the Great Devolver Ray
and stood, trembling, by the trigger.

This would return us
to our basest animal selves.
Would tune us perfectly into Nature,
re-thread us into the fabric of Creation
destroy the wall between Natural and Unnatural.

Pure uncorrupted survival: nothing more.

And so I stood, on the brink,
unsure as all great revolutionaries must be,
put my hand in place,
and pushed.

And the ray burst forth
and we were transformed
into the pure ******* creatures that Life demanded.

And absolutely nothing changed
at all.

The sea pulled in its gut for me
to show its rugged, rockpooled shore
then at the turning of the tide
exhaled and overflowed once more.

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.

"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.

Don't be scared, little thought!
I saw you, keeking out from behind some triviality
Reluctant to disturb me
(you could see I was tired), but please,
don't go, don't go!
I think we've met before?  Some years ago
When I was less careless with my time
And slower to retreat along well trodden paths.
I'm afraid I'm not the host I was,
but wait - at least remind me of your name?

Are you a vanished love,
Neither finished nor fulfilled?
Are you the speechless schoolboy view
From the summit of Ben Alder, won
By twenty miles of peat bog and scree?
(No wonder you feel a stranger here
In front of my T.V!)
Are you a question to which comfort was not the answer?
Oh please wait, I nearly have it!
You're a song, begun but forgotten?
You're something I meant to say to someone, once
You're a friend, a parent - a reason
For loving this great wide world

Don't go - don't leave me here
with Simon Cowell, cheap wine
And no momentum!

The sea cast a gift ashore
one stormy sullen day
and the barren rocky coast
was suddenly recast
as a natural history museum.

A whale.
A real whale, just lying there
shining on the shale

In another time,
we'd have known how to react.
This astonishing bounty
would have been quickly stripped
Bones for building
baleen for support
blubber and oil for fuel.

But now it lay
surrounded by detritus
made of better stuff.
The truth was,
we didn't really need it,
couldn't really use it,
like being presented with
Casablanca on VHS.

A sign appeared:
"Quad bike rides, £2",
red paint on rainsoaked cardboard.
I wasn't tempted.
Children poked it with sticks
in a desultory way,
stricken, intrigued, ashamed,
and utterly dwarfed.

The weeks passed
as we coughed in embarrassment
not knowing what to do,
until finally
someone brought a digger down
and discretely buried the beast.

By now, it will be a perfect skeleton
a prehistoric wonder
an artefact from unjaded days
when nature could still astonish,
trampled by unknowing tourists
as they dream of sunnier beaches.

"No, my friend," he said,
gently amused,
kindly patient.
"It is a fool who looks at the hand.
The wise man looks at the moon."

I felt ashamed,
but eager to redeem myself,
I turned my foolish gaze to the moon

Whereupon the hand
slipped into my pocket
and swiped my wallet.

A certain quiet glinting in the corner of my eye
a prickle-necked foreboding in a sullen winter sky
An ultrasonic wavelength tuned to sorrow and to fear
comes manifest, projected through my wish to bring it near
A pressure change, a slamming door, a thought of things undone
comes seeping through the paintwork for a bit of spectral fun

And I can sit complacently and watch the show unfold
My perfect explanations make me curious and bold
I wonder how my brain will paint this misty-coloured scene
What face will fly from memory where no face should have been
I have no need for magic or for spirits of the dead
But seek the secret passages that twine within my head

And here it comes, as if on cue, parading through the wall
(A weaker man than me would think his wisdom rather small)
The wraith is clothed in folklore, stepping past without a glance
And I would laugh it off but for one ghastly circumstance:
For all my knowledge, nothing helps the second that I see
That solid as I feel, this ghost
                                                     does not
                                                                ­       believe
                                                                ­                      in me.

Aye.
There was no police brutality
when we had the vote.
Barely a punch thrown.
We do things right here.
We talk.
We spraff.
We shoot the ****.
We build momentum,
shake foundations,
come within
a midgie's whisker
of doing something amazing

Then we **** it up completely
and write poems about it
for the next couple of centuries.

At least we can still kid ourselves
that it's someone else's fault.

The bombs will **** only the guilty.

This time,
the destruction of schools and homes,
of roads, hospitals and libraries,
will be instantly forgiven,
because we will acknowledged by all
to be the good guys.

This time we will know
what happens next.
We will have a plan
and we will execute it
with wisdom, compassion and skill.
And it will work.

This time no vested interests will lurk,
grinning, in the shadows,
waiting to lap sustenance
from spilled blood.
We will have none of that.

This time, our victory will prove
our moral superiority,
not merely that we spend more
on armaments
than they do.

This time, violence will beget peace.
Violence will beget forgiveness.
Violence will usher in
a new and loving age.

This time,
history
has nothing to teach us.

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.

Three travellers
are walking side by side.
Says the first:
"This path is long and weary,
and my soul sickens
with every step.
All it shows us
is misery, disease, corruption and death.
This is the path of the ******!"

Says the second:
"No, my friend, you are wrong!
This path guides
my every golden step.
It draws me further
into the dazzling wonder
of this impossible world
and pulls me forward
with the promise of beautiful new horizons.
This path is truly blessed!"

Says the third:
"There is no path."

The first
and the second
are unmoved, however

For there is no third traveller.

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.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous nation
Don't get ideas above your station
Take heed the rising indignation
You've unleashed -
You've had your little conversation,
Now haud yer wheesht!

Aye, very good, there's been a swing
and Salmond, he who would be king
believes you'll have your Arab Spring -
But who's he kidding?
Just settle back 'neath mammy's wing
and do our bidding

So what? Your little movement's grown
Brainwashed by Alec's endless drone
You'll never make it on your own
But we'll protect you
There's monsters in the great unknown
They're out to get you!

But don't believe us out of fear
Rewards will come if you stay near
Unthought of riches will appear
And never stop!
For starters? Why, just lookee here -
This lollipop!

We think the course that would be kindest
Is put this ugly thought behind us
And focus on the ties that bind us
The blood, the soil
(And since we're pals you will not mind as
we nab the oil!)

We've all enjoyed this wee distraction
You're an amusing little faction
You've had your day of satisfaction
But now it's crucial
We get Great Britain back in action -
Business as usual.

Betty Botter bravely brought her
best out putting pen to paper
built a book both brave and brittle
based it on the bitter battle
she had fought to beat the bottle
blossomed bigger, better, brighter
got the right to be a writer
Brought the book to Bertie Baxter
Baxter's Bookstore's biggest buyer
but the buyer was no biter
he thought vampire books were better
Tried to bate her and berate her
and belittle Betty Botter
bad benighted ******* bade her
"Be more like the bigger hitters!"
Better bet your bottom dollar
Betty Botter's ****** bitter.

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.

Ma haimmer stalled midswing,
a foot, yet, frae the nail -
frozen, useless and bizarre.

"Whit the hell?" I gasped,
tryin tae budge it.
I got my shouder ahent it, gie'd it a shove,
but nothin.  It just hung there.

Turns oot it wis installin updates.
It's a ****** screwdriver noo,
and that nail hings hauf oot the waw,
grinnin at me.

Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart

When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!

Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.

This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve

Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”

Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop

These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”

So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light

Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.

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!"

Camping out in Craig's garden,
four of us, thirteen or so,
and the daftness has given way
to important, dark-time talk.

Craig alone has a girlfriend, Paula -
he is a pioneer, entitled to ask,
"Fa dae you fancy, then?"
Inevitable question, social minefield

Answer, "No-one!" and you're a ****.
Give the wrong name,
and risk an eternity of slagging.
Tell the truth, and she might find out.

I go first: I have spotted a safe option.
"Ehm, I fancy Paula," I say,
and it's sort of true - she is a girl,
after all.

Chris goes next:
"Aye, I fancy Paula too."
"Me too," says Jimmy,
and we're all agreed.

We all fancy Paula.
We all fancy Craig's girlfriend,
and that's absolutely fine -
Craig seems satisfied.

And since none of us
has ever acted on such feelings:
since emotion does not yet imply intent
since there is no history of conniving,
of manipulating, of pursuit -
we are all safe and happy,
fancying our pal's lass.

Imagine that now.  Down the pub.
Getting on.  Marriages shoogly.
"Aye, I fancy your wife.
In fact, we all do."

Somehow I suspect
it would no longer be
the bonding experience
of that long-gone, pitch-dark night.