Category: POETRY

Cutting through frae Kennacraig. To Islay, July 1997.

DSC06326Cutting through, frae Kennacraig to Islay,

Nostalgic wonder tinged with excitement,

To find my love at Finlaggan Loch and whisper sweet something to the ancient wind

Just to sit and swim a while

While brave heart finds it purpose,

In the man I love.


What I should. 1997.

Dense, sensitive, slow hum,
Hum humming of life.
Flutter of butterfly wings
and chirrup of buzzing things.
The trickle chuckle river and the
warm, ticklish air.
I should throw myself down in the long, itchy grass.
I should walk, feel free and strong….
But I just will lay here, feeling good
for not doing.
What I should.

(If I cannot focus my energy into something soon I shall……..?)

Butterfly connections. 1997.

Butterfly connections.
Seagulls call and whirl.
Like black spots in the back of my eye.
Hieroglyphic spirals,
Picked out against the blinding sky.
Swallow tail swift,
forked slender arrow.
Dove coo, ancient, wood-wise.
A car brakes through and then away.
Bleating lambs, skimble and moan for their mothers.
African music, low and happy,
Accompanies the scene.
Breezes, breezy, blowing lightly.
Yellow poppies bow and bend.
So slow and sweet.


Horse. The whole process. 3 Luibs Cottages, Kilmartin, Scotland. 1997

(2017 – Apologies to my wonderful followers for the huge gap in updating this archive. To say I have had a lot going on would be an understatement! Under going a bit of a personal evolution! Some of you may have found my other blog? Rolling Om?
I often very slightly tweak my poems, as written in my notebooks, to pull them together to share here. But this time I thought it would be interesting to share the process, exactly as it is written, especially as this one was never really resolved. I often write poems, almost perfectly, straight out and then get lost in trying to better the original. This is one of those.)


Morning sun cast crystal shadow
Frosty stars fallen down from the night
The crisp crunch and stamp, stamp
Steamy purr, horse- lip whistle, damp
in the dry air.

Side on to the cresting sun
Shadowing the glinting grass
Haloed proud and tossing mane
Whose prize is he, proud beast, to train?

But he does not run as the jeep
All roar and oily snarl appears
He swings his head, pricks up his ears
And watches as the folks get out, come near,
He does not run, but insists that they
Should catch him first if they want to play!


Old Logan leaned upon the gate
Appraised his fine aquaintance
A tension electric sparked in the morning air,
And the proud beasts nostrils closed and flared.
Old Logan’s son stood by and smiled
as Thomas climbed the gate and
stumbled eager up the rise…
He throws his arms around the beast
Who leans into his young beating heart
And snorts his greeting into his palm.
Pleased to see his fine young friend…
Until Thomas wants to bring him down into the shadow
Down from his sunny, shining hill.
Thomas persisted, he resisted,
Showing all his will.


It’s an old, old game
To go out and tame
Clip clop, the same as what
the father’s father’s father did.
Father to son, to son, to son, to hold the rein,
Like blood in vein,
In sun and rain.
It’s an old, old game.
When lifestyles change, the purpose gone,
The relationship still lingers on
A love of horse.

Taking the reins.
Old wisdoms passed on
Pride in knowledge of the beast.
Equine power.
Horse-beats. Hoove prints.
Mystic and mundane.
Whispers. Horse power.
Gallop. Canter. Trot.
Feeling the true strength of friendship
Taming the wild, Seeking its calm.
Father to son.
A rightful pride is learned.


Wet breath and dusty mane.
Stamp and crunch.
Soft mutterings of velvet lips.
Coarse hair and thick matt coat.
Huge hooves. Thick horney pads.
The sky etched figure of power and natural freedom
The surge of muscle and sinew
Such grace and urgency.
The cantering image of power and natural freedom.
The shiver shake shudder and impatient toss,
Daring and challenging.
Ride me. Ride me. Teach me. Use me.
The promising image of power and natural freedom.
Teach me and I will teach you.
The patience and karma
Of true power and natural freedom.


There are always ways to talk to a horse.
Say them with your soul.
Manouver with suggestion
Draw then into the game
Otherwose they’ll never let you tame
Their mighty spirit.
There are always ways to talk to a horse.
Their teaching is sublime.
Reach in and find your ancient calm
And your respect is mine.



No where, but here. 1997.

Chipping off the old block
Tick tock, what rot,
Laid to rest, now he’s gone.
Gone to stray away.
Stay away.
Flip out again. Go crazy. Stuck on flowers
Reflect the glare.
Gasp for air.

A butterfly existence.
A fragile broken hair hits the breeze.
Teetering on the edge of time.
No where, but here.
I miss the running, but feel
like I’ve finished the race.
Arrived at a place.
Elastic emotions twang and snap
Every moment comes back to
Individuality is unfathomable.
We are all alone.

Burning ambitions. 3 Luib’s Cottages, Kilmartin, Scotland. 1997.

‘It is strange how my head can be so full of great, innovative, stories and ideas and then, suddenly, as soon as I pick up a pen and paper, all of this burgeoning, creative talent vanishes. leaving me floating in a frustrated void.
Fire flickr’ing tounges.

Tempting caverns within the embers.

Taking Sunday slowly, sheltering,

From the slashing, freaking, gusting weather

With an attitude of prooving our resistance.

T.V. and wellies.

The slow contented sigh of a man.

The crackling fire warms my arse as I sit with my knees up.

Blinking with dry eyes.

In my mind my ambitions burn, then mingle and merge , like smoke.

Confusing me.

Where to begin again?!!’




Lifting the lid. Braevallich Cottage, Scotland. 1996.

The inspiration crawled away and hid.

I found it for a while today,

In a small snuff box, when I lifted the lid.

I don’t know where it’s flown to now.

It’s done it again, just disappeared!

No point in believing that’s the end that I feared.

For some other day, as long as there are blank pages in my book,

I’ll find it again

When I am having a look.