Ailsa Craig

Oh Ailsa Craig, yon bonnie lass

atop South Ayrshire’s mercury seas

from Girvan beach I raise a glass

to your steadfast, honest, timeless beauty. 

Oh Ailsa Craig, from shingled shore

your siren song wondrously alights

my gaze, forever longing, oh

to endlessly adore this silvered sight. 

Oh Ailsa Craig, my rock, my love,

my one to treasure in times of strife,

to seek when days are stormy, mauve

and damp has seeped its rot through this life.

Oh Ailsa Craig, yon bonnie lass

veiled by an ashen, dreich-drawn curtain.

I need you now, if ever I asked

or never again, to be certain. 

For my great friend Tony McGowan, lad o' pairts

“Magari, Pedro, Magari.”

I was so looking forward to welcoming you to Italy.

One of your great loves.

I’ll never forget the night we saw Jimmy Cliff.

Another one. Bongo man a come.

You said he sparkled in silver.

And you sparkled all over, Tony.

Your shock of white hair and twinkling eyes.

Your delightfully wry and impish wit.

Your intelligence and understanding.

Your voracious charm.

Every time we entered a pub, the barmaid fell in love with you.

We all did. How couldn’t we?

You made Google redundant.

Your love of literature, nature, culture, cuisine. Celtic.

An intellect beyond compare.

But you had a way of knowing beyond books.

A teacher, a counsellor - not just to your students, or clients.

Every conversation with you was the most enjoyable lesson.

I’d laugh, and take a titbit to treasure, every time.

Your adroit one-liners will forever have me in hysterics.

“So dreich here, it could be the Sabbath!” You once said.

So much for the weather in Hamilton.

I loved your tales. The stories

of all your great pals, from Paradise to Normandy, China to Orkney.

Thanks to Tony, I’ve lived all your lives vicariously.

Regaled over pints. On Skype.

In the emails and texts that were as hilarious as they were literary.

“McGuffie correctly dissatisfied at the referee’s decision to award only a yellow.”

He had such wonderful words for every one of you. He adored you.

The fact there are too many to name tells its own story.

What a guy.

The irony is, he’s the first person I’d have sent this poem to, to see if it was any good.

He’d likely have sent me a book.

Like he did, often.

I once opened a parcel.

It contained Naked Lunch, and a note.

“Pedro.

For your edification.”

Isn’t that just so wonderfully Tony?

As well as a great friend, he was an education.

I wish I could soak him up, just one more time, in the pub.
I told him once, you know I’ve never been to the Doublet.
“Difficult to believe that,” he said.
“That'll compensate for the 734 times Graham and I were there.”

Well, Tony. Lad o’ pairts.
Teacher, honorary uncle. The best of friends.

I’m sure you’re with your great pals Graham, Bill, and Sandy,

having a riot and a pint somewhere ethereal. And less dreich.

You once told me, “I’ll miss radio 4 when it goes.”

I’ll miss you, Tony.

Orrabest.

For my Uncle Geoff

Geoff.

Let me start by saying you truly were a master chef.

The best Easter leg of lamb I ever ate.

And though you’re very sadly gone,

your crispy chicken recipe - absolutely - must live on.

I remember one particular garden barbeque vividly.

Kath came into the kitchen, raving, that you’d single-handedly revealed KFC’s secret recipe,

and it blew me away.

But I think it knocked us all for six when we learned you’d passed away.

Geoff was such a wonderful man. A leader of his adopted dynasty. A friend to so many.

I hope I can get even half the turnout to my party when I turn eighty.

Churchfield house celebrated a diamond that day.

Amongst my fondest memories will be Schwanden.

Our Swiss adventure. We were Scouts in Geoff’s pack.

I adored our journey on one of Geoff’s beloved trains,

and it’s safe to say, in his life, he’s kept many of us on track. 

A scout leader. Rotary member. School governor. Magistrate.

And in times of need his family and friends had a caring and supportive mate.

It’s been a year to reflect on lives dedicated to service,

and Geoff was amongst our finest.

They say time is the most precious gift of all,

and Geoff gave the community so much of his.

Uncle Geoff, you’ll be greatly missed.

But you’ll live on in our hearts.

And every time we raise a glass of Peroni you’ll be in our thoughts.

And we can toast to the wonderful man you were,

and the people we ought to be,

and be warmed that you’re with your beloved Kath,

together in the skies for a rightful eternity.

Spring's hope

In the sun kissed glades of this ancient woodland,

childlike I wonder at the burgeoning buds,

the first flecks of petal dash,

the optimistic early April bees.

As the buff-tailed bumbles from primrose to violet,

I feel certain, unlike her, that my searching is done.

For all of life's meaning can certainly be found

here in the hopeful Springtime sun.

Haikus #1-6: Leopards and peacocks

1

The leopard skulks 'neath
this tree my banquet table

purring with delight.

2

These boughs are laden

with fruits that one day will fall

and I must follow.

3

A swarming carcass

tells of prowling predators

alert to my steps.

4

Precariously

the struggle intensifies

this desperate heat.

5

Against the dust brown

bright peacock feathers foretell

the coming monsoon.

6

The thirst to survive

quenched by thunderous downpours

of ominous clouds.

Arabesques

That blighted sound of pitter-patter riles my very soul,
as meaningless words are typed onto soulless screens
and, caged, my body squirms in a windowless vessel.

All hopes fade with every smack of the space bar,
separating lines of spuriously contemplated pish -
my head, erupting, amidst a cacophony of plastic.

The constant hammering builds to a crescendo
of a lamentable 21st Century symphony
where creativity has come to die.

Swap me that plastic for blissful ivory chime,
each key caressed with the guile of an artist's touch
while words typed as melodies kiss my eardrums

Or the glistening glide of a whittled feather
painting trails of masterful strokes,
each line, to capture, a heartfelt moment.

As my mind wanders through each letter scribed,
the chains around me seemingly come loose-
the patter muted under sweet Arabesques.

25 hours in London

Friday night and sirens blare,
I try not to stare but look
As throngs of feet drip past
And there sit two fire trucks.

They pull a dubious u-turn
And almost collide head-on,
The bustle is confusing
For anyone straddling these streets.

The firemen watch me,
fag in hand, they think -
It's them that burn the houses
Down, whiskey bottle in hand.

Back inside the city hotel
I catch a chat at the bar
Practising my French for a while,
I've almost forgotten where I am.

I fancy a jar to clear my mind,
Addled by the constant buzz -
Normally I'd step outside
To think, but here it's unnatural

Unless, you're an ant.  This
Swarm of perpetual foot fall
Pounds in my ears and rings
Like I've developed tinitis.

I give up, back to the bar,
A double whiskey, a bit more French
And unprepared I head to bed,
My saturated mind to settle.

Down twelve quid only eight hours later,
A taxi drives aimlessly round
Pretending the pitiful length
Of the journey warrants a tip.

And now I'm in a post-capitalist
Wasteland, wondering how
Much it'll cost to buy outright
A measley one bed studio flat

Where the nearest decent shop
Is a DLR stop down the line,
Inflating the price of a pint
Of milk at five hundred percent.

And finally it's time to leave
This desolate, throbbing jungle
As my carriage sweeps through vast,
Crumbling, concrete estates.

Then the descent into the black
Of a train-sized manhole, packed
Until the doors slide open
And I join the wilderbeast

Which stampede toward the central line
And cram me to the wall as I
Attempt to stem the incessant flow
In vain to try and read the map.

Back in the throng, a bottleneck,
Of a fattening queue blocks
The steps of a perfectly decent
But overwhelmingly underused set of stairs.

I skirt the laziness and beat
The escalator, and narrowly
Avoid being knocked to the ground
As the wilderbeast peg it

To the gate, which slams
So suddenly shut that my bag
Was hardly accommodated,
Heaved through and over, before

I realise it's mid-October,
Umpteen feet under the ground
And I'm sweltering, wearing
Only a t-shirt and a Harrington,

Accentuated as I step inside
A burning hot tin of humans
Pressed against doors and squashed
Together, no-one catching an eye.

I ponder the words of Alan
Partridge, who said of London
That you can go there but
You'll either be mugged or unappreciated. 

I've never been mugged but
I feel like a muggle, lost
In a mysterious metropolis
I'll never fully understand.

I eventually reach platform six
Of Liverpool Street Station,
Coffee in hand and I sigh...
Thank fuck I live in Norwich!