KINGS CAVE, ISLE OF ARRAN i Gouged lang afore this battered isle Wis ga’en a name tae caa its ain, The caves o the King gape like wounds Cut deep intae Arran’s armoured side. Here, generations o men hae carved Thir mark intae sanstane waas. Here, time hides in the dark, darin aa Tae enter an feel its cal embrace. ii Anither tide cackles alang Arran’s ragged edge, As if laffin at The attempts o men Tae fashion a hame In this barren place, Whar even the hardest hert Wid fin sparse cumfirt. An yet, wun life an waar Conspire agin ye, An aa ye crave is shelter, Then even a cave Can seem a palace, Wi saan deep as ony carpet, An each stane the saftest pilla, Fit fir a Kings heed.
TIDE The froth o another tide Bursts alang this cauld Scottish shore-line. At this precise meenit, Thir is nae ither soond, Even the gulls are quaet. A lone stalk o seaweed, Like a loaded quill pen, Presses intae wet saan. The moment hings, an then, Jist as anither page Threatens tae slowly turn, A finger o a wave rises, As if ready tae shoosh A stirrin wean.
FOREST COTTAGE The forest is wunnin agane In its ain relentless wey. It is pullin this auld cottage Back intae its deeper sel, Reclaimin this precious space, Slowly restorin the balance. It is natyir that is crackin Thae waws, its weighty growth That his broken through the roof. But, there is no real daith here, Thir is only life that can Nae longer be held at bey. Ye arrived here by chance, Noo tak the time tae look aroon. Touch new leaves, smell wild floors, Feel the air, fresh frae the forest. Tak yer leave in yer ain guid time, This is nae need tae snek the gate.
FIRST GEMME Stair Park, a caul December efternuin, Stranraer, at hame tae the micht o Forfar. A’m nae mair than eicht years auld, an clingin tae ma grandfaither’s haun, stampin the glaur o mud an ash in an effort tae keep warm. “They’re a team o triers son, a team o triers. Ye can ask nae mair”, his heid floatin on a sea o pipe reek, his een gleamin as he tuik the gemme in. Stranraer won, twa nil! “First gemme eh! Ye’re ma lucky mascot”. He bent doon, wrapped me in his scarf, “A wee victory son, juist a wee victory”. He spoke slow, so that a could unnerstaun, Granda, a miss yer voice, a miss yer haun.
DRY STANE DYKE The stanes o this auld dyke are free, yet each depends upon the ither. It is the dyker’s skill that binds them, his een provided the mortar. Run yer haan alang its rough side, feel hoo each boulder plays its pert. Feel its simple strength, abune aa, feel the years pulsin through its hert.
STAUNIN STANES Thir are those Wha seek meanin In the alignment O staunin stanes. Wha line up The stars an mune An track the shaddies Imprintit by the sun. Thir are ithers Wha accept a mystery Fir whit it is, Beyon an answer, Perhaps it is eneuch To staun an look Within these places. The stanes become Question merks Embedded in The deep pages O the lanscape. Sumtimes, wi can Dig too deep, An tapple too Mony unknowns. Thir is space eneuch Tae leave alane, Tae wunner an dream, As wi search Fir yon lane stane We ken is oot there, But is alwise Jist oot o reach.