Where I live there is a small burn running past the side of the house. Then, one March morning, frog spawn appeared as if out of nowhere.Powered by Hackadelic Sliding Notes 1.6.4

The ‘mackerel pit’ is real, a nose in the sea floor off Corrie where fish gather and, if you can find it, the fishing is easy. Or was. Because of course the days when the waters around Arran were teeming with fish have ‘long gone’. The Clyde is, as they say, fished out. So this poem is in part a lament for the decline of the Clyde fishery, but also a celebration of the pleasure – and mystery – to be had from line fishing. The poem was awarded first prize in the 2009 Open Poetry Competition organised by Norwich Writers Circle.Powered by Hackadelic Sliding Notes 1.6.4

The Blackwater Reservoir is on the edge of Rannoch Moor in the Highlands of Scotland. Between 1905 and 1909, in the last project of its kind to rely wholly on manual labour, over three thousand navvies built what was then the largest dam in Europe. The bodies of those who died during its construction are buried at the site.Powered by Hackadelic Sliding Notes 1.6.4

Like a parliament of crows, the collective noun for lapwings is the sort of esoteric factoid that one day might just win you a pub quiz. It derives from the birds’ diversionary tactics when they have young. Being ground nesting, both eggs and young are vulnerable to predators, including prowling humans. To divert attention they are reputed to feign injury, offering themselves as an apparently easy prey so that their young are unmolested.

Years ago when I lived on a smallholding high up on the bare hills of Lanarkshire in Scotland, one of my great joys was watching these birds with their stunning aerobatics and extraordinary calls. This poem won a prize in the competition organised by Peterloo Poets in 2008.
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This one is for insomniacs everywherePowered by Hackadelic Sliding Notes 1.6.4

This poem started with seeing an empty nest in a ruined building in the forest up the hill from where I live. It was autumn, the swallows that had built it had gone, and I was struck by the sheer improbability of it all, the debris of their efforts here in Scotland, and their continued life, and the lives of their fledglings, on the other side of the planet.Powered by Hackadelic Sliding Notes 1.6.4