While helping clean her room, I slide any change I find lying on the floor into my hip pocket. I admit to swiping it, fringe benefits, I say. The next morning, I return it to her (it hadn’t amounted to much) to make up her bus fare. I tell her about searching for coins down … Continue reading Every Penny
At times I feel overwhelmed by all there is to do in a life, the surplus weight of life’s administration and bureaucracy and responsibility, all those things we’d all love to jettison. I take a moment to consider what could be simplified or scrubbed from the list entirely: passport renewal, new tariff for my broadband, … Continue reading The Weight of Life
I spent last week in the Highlands, in retreat, writing. It misted, it rained, it blew, and on the last night, the elements fell still, the sky cleared, and we adjourned to the straw bale studio to read our work aloud, to uncork wine and stay up late. On the short walk back to the … Continue reading The Old Lady Who Put the Stars in the Sky
Earlier this year, one of my sisters-in-law told me she’d begun to avoid doing anything where she might run the risk of falling. “Can’t afford it, not now I’m older,” she said. “I used to be built from stoneware pottery, now I chip and crack as easily as biscuit porcelain and it’s more difficult to … Continue reading Glue or Rivets
That’s it now, the gentleness of the old season has gone, the weak arm of autumn that had been holding a slack, frayed rope to summer’s end has lost its strength, snapped, and a new rope has been attached firmly to winter. The new rope is tightening, it is pulling winter towards us, or the … Continue reading The Sea, The Sea
XXIV. The Meadows A storm is blowing through. Aidan. Huge gusts shove children in the playpark, they stagger – little sozzled people – then regain their footing, run. Shouts can’t be heard above the blasting storm that rips through trees, strips boughs, steals hats. The pink curly wig on the girl with fishnet stockings is … Continue reading The Meadows, Kitchen Table
It shall be my fifth consecutive evening swim in the harbour. Spring tides are here. I’m togged up. I head down to launch myself when the water is high, but the spirit is low, weak. Not this evening, I decide. There is no need. Why put yourself through this torture? Nobody’s forcing you. You’re a … Continue reading The Contented Loneliness of the Cold Water Swimmer
XXII. St. Stephen Street Here men wear trousers chosen for the fruit they eat – cherry, lemon, plum, and apricot. Stock fashion. Plaited belts, hair that tickles silk cravats (in paisley print) tucked into shirts (two buttons open), gold rimmed spectacles, pocket squares poke from Harris tweed. Men who say, ‘brisk breeze today,’ buy croissants … Continue reading St Stephen Street, Water of Leith
‘It’s all well and good, this poetry phase you are going through, but please tell me you’re nearly through it. What’s it all about anyway? All that wandering and maundering. And those ghosts? Are they real? –By which I mean, I know they’re not real, but do you think they’re real? When are you going to get this poem … Continue reading Something Simple
XIX. St Cuthbert’s My plan: to gaze on David glazed in glass bejewelled, a rarity from Tiffany’s. Slingshot held low on pebbled shore, he glances over, searching for Goliath. In the background, flags wave triumphant, God’s inspiration, a spur that we can conquer, vanquish beasts. But today the church is locked to keep at bay … Continue reading St Cuthbert’s, High Street, Lawnmarket
My Edinburgh Press 