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.

SCOTLAND



Scotland, beautiful land, land of the sky, clouds

hugging your mountains, mist in the glens.

Deep black lochs full of mystery and monsters,

age-old secrets for very few to find.

Everyone can see the beauty of this land,

next to England but a million miles away.

Once we were enemies but now friends,

a country with so many moods and colours,

the sky, timeless in her gaze and her poise.

Snow covered mountains, ever so high.

Sheltered coastline, hidden bays full of promise

and the essence of mystery, maybe a mermaid,

Scottish maiden…

I was lucky to meet Lori in 2003, our brief time together

showed me another world.

Deep mystical Scotland, England’s neighbour,

a world in itself.

Southampton, Liverpool, Bournemouth and Hull
Places in England that give you the pull
going by ****** or National Express
Wherever you want it can cost you less
booking in 3 or more months in advance
lets you see scenery takes only a glance
from down south and London and places above
get into Scotland you'll need to wear glove
Cross the border and hear the sound of the pipes
or get into wales - a choir - ooh cripes
a sound that gives you goosebumps
a sound that makes you cringe
keep going north my friend
and watch the Edinburgh Fringe

I live in the north with the hoodies and the loons,
Where the wild gorse grows and prickles the brooms,
Where fields and pastures roll into mounds,
Which fold into mountains which tickle the clouds.

I live in the north, more water than rock,
Grey, green and blue like glas on the loch,
Reflecting the perfect mirror of the moon,
Are the world's oldest rocks, from which it was hewn.

I live in the north where cold winds blow,
Bringing hailstones and hurricanes, sunshine and snow,
To pristine white sand beaches where white waves come foaming,
To the straths and the glens serene in the gloaming.

I live in the north, the land of the Scots,
Named after the Irish, the natives forgot,
A land of Vikings and Picts, through war and through fire,
They bested the worst of the Roman empire.

I live in the north where the music runs deep,
It can make you laugh till you cry or a grown man weep,
A reel to make you believe any fable,
A blast of the pipes'll have you dance on the table.

I live in the north, still ruled by a king,
Monarch of the glen, lord of the ling,
Whose forests lack trees and whose lands are bare,
Save for the lonely, hunted hare.

I live in the north where magic is real,
And you can never be sure if it's selkie or seal,
Where the goddess Aurora paints the night sky green,
And dances with more stars than you've ever seen.