The Forest Speaks – Andrew Collins
Footsteps through the moss;
The foxes went to ground.
Another tumbling burn to cross;
A buzzard called a most uncanny sound.
The pines sighed and their spines did creak,
Darkness fell upon like a curse.
Every twig under-foot made as to speak
In judgement which only made it worse.
A winter in only the first flush;
Distant, a pheasant cocks a lonely trail.
As the crows moved to reverent hush
The forest was soon to give up the tale.
There, he entered a clearing unperturbed
To find the grave yet still quite undisturbed.
Sheepskin – Blythe Stockdale
When the dog got put down last week
I wrapped him in your old sheepskin.
He remembered it from your walks, you see,
since he was a pup, he has snuffled at the sleeves
each morning, unaware of my mourning,
only the absence of warm hands within.
Now I find myself knocking around our ruins
solo, like a votaress, taking note
of birthdays and deathdays- how sadly we grow.
Somewhere you two are tottering down a brae
in old age, I lie dreaming
of soil and sheepskin
my nose against damp fur,
soft paws, sleeve cuffs.
I long for mornings
without mourning
and nights howling at the lost man in the moon.
Flight of Fancy – Jaeden Reppert
For fifteen months, I’ve been still as stone.
Grounded in granite, restricted by rock
I’ve not left the city, though my mind is prone
To flights of fancy to the land once I’d flock.
My thoughts soar from the city, out into the shire,
Down the Don or the Dee, into lands olden and wild,
Where nature is nobility, and the stag the sire,
Where ancient hills act the father, and mankind the child.
To the glens where rivers run untrafficed and run free,
In any crevice or corrie may one find a burn.
To the rapids that run before the ships in the Sea:
For this waved vein of the Dee does my heart yearn.
Among crumbling castles and forts forgotten,
Where long-lasting circles denote a bygone site;
It is with these monuments that I am besotten:
Surely seeing them again would vanquish my plight.
To this world in my dreams do I desire to start
To and return to: that magnificent land
That enraptured and captured and still holds my heart:
The place I am happiest when in Scotland.
aye – Ian Macartney
Finally shaving. Compacted in like deep snow
then parsed with flat blade, after-balm, wheat of the sink,
crisp crumbs on wine-stained carpet […] the conditional
everything. It is meant to be the start of spring
but sometimes grass goes straw, blonde flecks by brown water
difficult to split from the wintering body.
Beau Geste – Megan Macdonald
your Beau Geste gnaws at what was left of my
pathetic puissance
hopeless amorist turned miserable misanthrope
my caterwaul lost in your virile reassurance
the sound comforts you
your comfort only fuels my loathing
you and your wretched
Beau Geste
Phocidae – Kirsty Lawie
Glinting along the shoreline,
wet rocks disrupting the Don.
Break from the pod;
Emerge from the murk
“fit lyk iday, quine”
Then drop underwater with a gleam in your eye,
Falling back in to the depths, leaving me behind
Nothing more beautiful – Fin Hall
Watching a film. The sound of metal
A drummer in a rock band going deaf
The frustration
he feels
As it takes away his livelihood
The moods he gets
The anger
The depression
The suppression of the realisation
Until he has to face the truth
The loneliness within
The pain
The denial of help offered
As sounds drift away
Forever
The separation.
At least I can hear some
Not silence when he beats his drum
There is nothing more beautiful that spoken words
Except perhaps subtitles
Brace – Nicola Furrie Murphy
In the guise of Mr Pheasant, you trod
ungainly on the ground, streamlined in air.
I shared your sightings with your sister
who’d heard your call from another country.
We exchanged coded cards, mugs and tea-towels,
emblazed: Lord of the Woods.
You cropped up again when I pulled out of junctions,
distracted, braced for the emergency stop.
Then we were all grounded.
The bird feeders thronged and the garden chimed.
Chestnut lapstrake, shimmering in petrol
you strutted, posing for red-eye photographs.
One morning, I open the door
and Mac, your son, hares towards you.
You flee, barely clearing the fence, in raucous take-off.
I breathe and featherless we ease out of lockdown.
Now when I see you, you’ve brought a lady friend to tea.
A brace of pheasants, as it ever was.
The Forest Speaks – Andrew Collins
Footsteps through the moss;
The foxes went to ground.
Another tumbling burn to cross;
A buzzard called a most uncanny sound.
The pines sighed and their spines did creak,
Darkness fell upon like a curse.
Every twig under-foot made as to speak
In judgement which only made it worse.
A winter in only the first flush;
Distant, a pheasant cocks a lonely trail.
As the crows moved to reverent hush
The forest was soon to give up the tale.
There, he entered a clearing unperturbed
To find the grave yet still quite undisturbed.
Sheepskin – Blythe Stockdale
When the dog got put down last week
I wrapped him in your old sheepskin.
He remembered it from your walks, you see,
since he was a pup, he has snuffled at the sleeves
each morning, unaware of my mourning,
only the absence of warm hands within.
Now I find myself knocking around our ruins
solo, like a votaress, taking note
of birthdays and deathdays- how sadly we grow.
Somewhere you two are tottering down a brae
in old age, I lie dreaming
of soil and sheepskin
my nose against damp fur,
soft paws, sleeve cuffs.
I long for mornings
without mourning
and nights howling at the lost man in the moon.
Flight of Fancy – Jaeden Reppert
For fifteen months, I’ve been still as stone.
Grounded in granite, restricted by rock
I’ve not left the city, though my mind is prone
To flights of fancy to the land once I’d flock.
My thoughts soar from the city, out into the shire,
Down the Don or the Dee, into lands olden and wild,
Where nature is nobility, and the stag the sire,
Where ancient hills act the father, and mankind the child.
To the glens where rivers run untrafficed and run free,
In any crevice or corrie may one find a burn.
To the rapids that run before the ships in the Sea:
For this waved vein of the Dee does my heart yearn.
Among crumbling castles and forts forgotten,
Where long-lasting circles denote a bygone site;
It is with these monuments that I am besotten:
Surely seeing them again would vanquish my plight.
To this world in my dreams do I desire to start
To and return to: that magnificent land
That enraptured and captured and still holds my heart:
The place I am happiest when in Scotland.
aye – Ian Macartney
Finally shaving. Compacted in like deep snow
then parsed with flat blade, after-balm, wheat of the sink,
crisp crumbs on wine-stained carpet […] the conditional
everything. It is meant to be the start of spring
but sometimes grass goes straw, blonde flecks by brown water
difficult to split from the wintering body.
Beau Geste – Megan Macdonald
your Beau Geste gnaws at what was left of my
pathetic puissance
hopeless amorist turned miserable misanthrope
my caterwaul lost in your virile reassurance
the sound comforts you
your comfort only fuels my loathing
you and your wretched
Beau Geste
Phocidae – Kirsty Lawie
Glinting along the shoreline,
wet rocks disrupting the Don.
Break from the pod;
Emerge from the murk
“fit lyk iday, quine”
Then drop underwater with a gleam in your eye,
Falling back in to the depths, leaving me behind
Nothing more beautiful – Fin Hall
Watching a film. The sound of metal
A drummer in a rock band going deaf
The frustration
he feels
As it takes away his livelihood
The moods he gets
The anger
The depression
The suppression of the realisation
Until he has to face the truth
The loneliness within
The pain
The denial of help offered
As sounds drift away
Forever
The separation.
At least I can hear some
Not silence when he beats his drum
There is nothing more beautiful that spoken words
Except perhaps subtitles
Brace – Nicola Furrie Murphy
In the guise of Mr Pheasant, you trod
ungainly on the ground, streamlined in air.
I shared your sightings with your sister
who’d heard your call from another country.
We exchanged coded cards, mugs and tea-towels,
emblazed: Lord of the Woods.
You cropped up again when I pulled out of junctions,
distracted, braced for the emergency stop.
Then we were all grounded.
The bird feeders thronged and the garden chimed.
Chestnut lapstrake, shimmering in petrol
you strutted, posing for red-eye photographs.
One morning, I open the door
and Mac, your son, hares towards you.
You flee, barely clearing the fence, in raucous take-off.
I breathe and featherless we ease out of lockdown.
Now when I see you, you’ve brought a lady friend to tea.
A brace of pheasants, as it ever was.