I was being stalked by something large and threatening
foot falls behind me but there was no-one there
an uninvited guest to me he is beckoning
shimmering rings, rainbow his head in the air
I know Bigfoot looms large in swathes of shifting grey.
I'm above the clouds stood with my back to the sun
the dark figure motions to his trembling prey
"oh circular glory, to you I'm outrun
sat cowering beneath the Brocken Spectre
the circle was broken and the Grey Man walked free
was he a Troll or some Mountain Protector?
Oh! Hideous encounter, the Grey Man was me!

the hills breathe verselets high and low
in jigsaw lochans of liquid sky
lure me back to where I want to go
back to the land where poems lie

clouds turn mountains into words
that sing unto the morning sky
and a faintly scattered beach of birds
call out to me where poems lie

four seasons lie forever stranded
await some verse to unlock the spry
in a song that never ended
in beautiful land where poems lie

the setting sun says that all is well
as rhythmic rivers join the cry
of pounding waves of sand and shell
in the Motherland .. where poems lie!

Picturesque Edinburgh symbolizes Scottish regal splendor,
Which can be seen in buildings that are truly rich in decor,
The solid architectural structures are such a visual marvel,
Replete with history when one tries to unravel

Mary, Queen of Scots is a name we  remember from school history,
The palace where she was born speaks of tales that remain a sad mystery,
That she was ordained to be the Queen as soon as she was born, was destiny,
It was her mother's foresight and Providence that enabled her to survive the mutiny

The palace rooms and items therein portray her tragic life,
Their vividity saddens the visitor when seeing how full it was of strife,
The room in which she was kept in isolation by her better half,
Spoke volumes of the agony she endured at the hands of her bitter half

The Royal Castle has a whole history behind its walls,
The gusty Scottish winds in no way diminishes visitors' footfalls,
The audio tour reveals fascinating stories little heard of elsewhere,
Which we would never come to know if we had not been there

The prisoners-of-war cells and isolation wards that are centuries old,
Depict in great detail the meted treatment which was a sight to behold,
One cannot but wonder at the related stories of medieval times,
The mannerisms of people of warring nations, that was less than sublime

The difference in Scottish and English (London) accents is quite striking,
One needs to listen closely without too much jaw breaking,
Where the former is more subtle and measured and in consonance with word spelling,
The drawl and crunching emphasis of words in the latter is more telling

While walking through Princess Street Garden at leisure,
Taking in the floral beauty is such a pleasure,
The spectacular view of the castle atop the hill,
Screams for a photo shoot of your own free will

The Waverly Bridge junction is a busy thoroughfare all day,
As automobiles ply by and pedestrians wend their way,
The hustle and bustle is not too over the top,
As people seemingly find time to stop and shop

As a nation the Scots can be justifiably proud,
By nature they seem modest without being too loud,
Their common bond with the English is that they share the same Queen,
Their rivalry otherwise is perhaps latent and needs to be seen

He closed his eyes on his weekly stroll,
And pondered on what it would be; if he'd known,
That it'd be a golden paved death - he'd lay with his dole.
Would all the trench boys still ****** to dug out holes?

Many bitter nights with malice to his brain,
Thought lasting the hardship would be the 'all okay'.
The flag would save him; The flag would eradicate the pain,
But the flag hollowed him out and the trench boys all the same.

What must we do in such a caviler present age?
Sign petitions in false hope of changing the unchanged?
The ol' trench boys still rot in sheltered accommodation.
Gave their live; their youth; their back and front tooth,
For their isolated treasured nation.

******

say it again please
say it to my face
we all heard you
but please
scream it out
bawl, screech and shout

******

i hear you

but speak louder for the gay kid sitting at the back
confused with being told they need fixing when they don’t feel broken
speak louder for the people on the run from a society who denies their very being

c’mon

s p e a k   l o u d e r

bawl it out for those who are pressed between choosing religion and expression
for those who pass having never felt acceptance

scream it
for our trans family whose futures linger in the hands of the very people who want to erase us from society

we would love to hear your opinion
and i’m sure you’d love to give it, right?

so c’mon!!

i can hear you
but say it to their faces
scream it out
bawl, screech and shout

try it.

I promise you we'll bite.

at the top
of the National Museum,
there is a bed of Highland Gorse,
tamed by a rope of metal, and
given Latin names.

*****, moon white branches
barely hold
sickled leaves which
fall into gloam drenched soil.

transplanted, and
awkwardly placed,
between two concrete slabs,
it looks and sounds alien to the city.

displaced, amongst the dull
incomprehensible squeal of
tourists and gulls, the heavy
roar of dim traffic, muted
bagpipes and the occasional
camera click.

looking upwards,
the shallow blue north
of an uncluttered sky,
and the thin
uneven line of an aircraft,
divided in two.