The sky hung low o’er Stirling brig,

Wi' blood upon the heather sprig.

The pipes were still, but hearts beat loud -

A lion stirred beneath its shroud.



Frae forest glen tae castle stane,

The cry was clear, “we’ll bow tae nane!”

A nation bound in iron chain,

Rose wi’ Wallace, fierce an fain.



A common man, yet bold as kings,

He bore nae crown, but freedom brings.

Wi' broadsword drawn an fire-eyed grace,

He faced the foe in battle’s face.



The fields ran red, the winds did mourn,

For sons that widnae see the morn.

But in each death, a cause was born -

A land tae love, a fate scorn.



He didnae seek the laurel’d prize,

But justice for the wee the weemen’s cries.

Nae tyrant’s word, nae English law,

Could crush the dream he aye foresaw.



Though treachery did strike him doon,

An hung him ‘neath a foreign toon -  

Still Scotland hears his fearless name,

A martyr set in Freedom’s flame.



So let the wind through Wallace run,

Through stone and soil, through blood and sun.

For in each Scot that dares tae say,

“We’ll aye be free”- lives Wallace’s day.

In the streets where laughter once danced,

Now shadows linger, dreams entranced.

The echoes of youth, in chaos, collide,

In search of solace, in search of pride.

Broken glass glimmers like hopes unkept,

Each flash of violence, a promise that wept.

With every heart lost, with every soul torn,

A future lies fractured, a nation forlorn.

Where are the shields the watchful eyes?

In alleyways dark, innocence cries.

When did our playgrounds turn into battlegrounds?

When did our joy become lost, never found?

Leaders AWAKE! Hear our urgent call -  

These tender lives matter, let none of them fall,

With empathy rising, let kindness entwine,

In choosing our actions, let love be the sign.

We stand at the brink, together we rise,

With whispers of hope, ‘neath Scotland's vast skies.

For our children, our future, in unity, strive,

In nurturing peace, we’ll keep hope alive.

So, let's craft a change, where together we stand,

Forging a place where we cradle each hand.

In a tapestry woven with courage and grace,

We’ll mend what's been broken and reclaim our space.

The heather weeps, a purple bruise,
Across the glens, the chilling news.
No bagpipes drone a mournful sound,
But sirens wail on hallowed ground.
A thistle bleeds, its prickling crown,
As innocence is stricken down.
Young eyes, once bright with Highland fire,
Now gleam with something dark and dire.
The steel they flash, a twisted boast,
A stolen childhood, dearly lost.
Each shadowed lane, a whispered fear,
Of blades that gleam and futures near,
Consumed by rage, a hollow pride,
Where youthful dreams have gone to hide.
Parents clutch, with hearts ablaze,
Afraid to loose in this iron maze.
The ancient stones, they stand and stare,
At broken vows and whispered prayer.
Can Scotland rise, her spirit mend,
And teach these children how to bend,
The steel to craft, the hands to heal,
And learn the wounds are truly real?
To trade the blade for open hand,
And reclaim peace within the land.

He sings wistfully

about a sheep, cow or goat --


sunk into the peat.

Old and new, side by side,
always riding changing tides.
Ebb and flow, rise and fall,
topsy turvy times for all.
Old church clock strikes at noon,
a smartwatch plays a tune,
then and now we measure time —
see how our times seem to rhyme

Cross upon cross upon cross
were stacked to make the Union Jack
but with one saltire feeling salty
will Andy make Jack fade to black?

A-walking through stone Old Town streets
of Edinburgh lashed by wind and sleet,
I saw Tron Kirk tower ***** the sky —
she loosed great raindrops on passersby:
A handsome former city church,
by fickle faithful left in the lurch,
still called down tears of Scottish rain
and wept, but dreams she’ll rise again

Peering through a old stone gate,
its face well carved, in prayers attired,
I saw a golden wall of late
before which stood cracked streetlamps retired,
their warming light now long gone
yet they still glow stubbornly on

In an aisle of a great stone church
by flickering light of candles perched
under finials and arches tinged with gold,
flags fly for blood shed on fields of old:
They wave with wistful dreams of war
and tell of great esprit de corps
in a house made holy for a prince of peace
whose dreams of love they speak of least

In Scotland painters favor plaid
Though tartans are likely just a fad.  
When dabbing on the wall
The hand can’t slant at all.  
Glaswegians think diagonals bad.