The cry of the Plover
born in Canada in 1919
moved to the Highlands at the age of thirteen
conquering mountains is what brought him his fame
pioneering new routes was just part of the game
at the age of just twenty Syd went off to war
fought for King and country, who could have wished for more
I've no doubt at all that the lad was sincere
but I think he would sooner be at home chasing the deer
he returned to the mountains just after the war
the scent of the heather drew his heart back for more
he returned to the mountains just after the war
at the croak of the Ptarmigan his heart was in furor
He would race to the summit of Bhein Dearg Beg
even though since the war he had only one leg!
He loved the Highlands with all his mind and might
even though since the war he didn't have his sight!
with the salt in the wind and the cry of the Plover
Syd was determined his life was far from over
with the wind in the corries and the burns that did roar
Syd became a Greek scholar and a Doctor in law
a mountain guide he surely would never become bored
at work he operated a telephone switchboard
he wrote books and poems and learnt to read braille
but still enjoyed a laugh and a pint of real ale
Syd always loved the hills and the cry of the Plover
though on 9/9/'06 it really was game over
that night over Corrour bothy a Plover cried
the night the lovable vagabond Syd Scroggie died.
Syd Scroggie served with the 7th Cameronian Rifles Regiment fighting German Jaegar troops in the last offencive of the Italian campaign at the end of the Second World War. On the last day of the war Syd stood on a land mine that blew off part of his right leg and robbed him of his sight. His subsequent recovery and accomplishments have both humbled and inspired others to overcome disabilities.
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| Corrour Bothy at the foot of The Devils Point |
Waterfall
life is all a Waterfall
when you were young
you would leap around
and come crashing down
you loved the sound of anything loud
a tower of falling water, you never stopped
on the edge of a precipice yet you were secure
on a slippery slope yet you were immune to danger
you cascaded into the plunge pools of youthful enthusiasm
there were no foot holds
you sometimes crashed into some bigger rocks
oblivious, as gallons of water astonishingly turned into vapour
insidiously the water eroded the softer rocks
as it levelled out into a rock strewn cataract
the stream then chose a congenial course
no longer bashed about by the violent eddies
but politely circumventing the rocky bluffs
rose tinted stones are visible in the calm rock pools
you can still hear the sound of the waterfall
you can just see it beyond the beautiful flowers of the meadow
overhead the sky in the west is red
as the river reaches the sea
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| ''the Caterpillar works hard many days but the Butterfly gets all of the praise'' |
Butterflies
fluttering rose petals high in the sky
self propelled marigolds over the lawn
in some fresh meadows danced a Butterfly
freedom, sunshine and nature they adorn
woods or hedgerows, it goes where it pleases
star of summer it pleases where it goes
down by the river when the wind eases
Orange tips fly by in sweet scented prose
Brimstones and Ringlets, harbingers of spring
they just could not wait to be beautiful
ballet in the air or a Highland fling
they fly in a natural musical
the Caterpillar works hard many days
but the Butterfly gets all of the praise.
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| small tortoiseshell |
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| Speckled wood |
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| Painted Lady |
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| Large White photo bombed by a small Bee! |
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| Red Admiral |
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| Peacock |
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| Gatekeeper |
Our Birds
our birds are back, a Goldfinch duet
golden mornings, summer's not over yet
sun blessed cellos in a ribbon of shade
fluttering about in a forest glade
our birds are back and a glass of wine
with a lake of strings in whispered sunshine
trees swaying in harmony with the breeze
rhythmic colours warble in the lees
our birds are back hopping on the fence
bobbing red heads in cascade and cadence
flute and piccolo seeking cool water
cat in the hedge moves in for the slaughter
our birds are too quick they have a sixth sense
on to the next garden in cool deference
seeds drop from the feeder on long summer days
we all take turns in feeding our birds praise!
On some far away Beach
let's fly away
to some far away beach
just my Sweetheart and me
to a land that's set free
the sun's benevolence
the ocean's fragrance
the palm trees they sway
in a light breeze all day
as I stare out to the sea
the fronds wave at me
little French auberge
overlooking the beach
the wrath of the world
just out of reach
we'll walk hand in hand
fall asleep on the sand
as the waves kiss your feet
feel the sand in your toes
as the sun mellows
into an evening repose
let's drink some wine
we've got space and time
on some faraway beach
just my Honey and me
and the pounding of the sea
clearing my mind
whatever you find
in the waves of your mind
but I left it all there
on some faraway beach.
The Instant
the instant
that you knock your ankle on a table leg
pain is suspended
like waiting for your partner to answer the phone
or making eye contact with a friend over a sea of strangers
the frozen moments are stretched by dread
because of the fear of the forthcoming pain
but when you rub your ankle vigorously
and get the blood flowing in the area
the pain subsides
in time to come
even under deep hypnosis
you will never remember the instant
it is completely forgotten about
until you do it again!
A Poem within a Poem
number 2 Hall Cottage, Cakes for Sale
don't be too busy to smell the roses
phone Sarah, orders for large cakes taken
don't be too shy to chase a Butterfly
honesty and nostalgia dovetail
just as this wee poem juxtaposes
subtle flavors make taste buds awaken
to fine things in life these words do apply
Victoria sponge, a slice of heaven
so don't rush around stop and smell the roses
0624 52817!
and don't let old Mother Time slip idly by.
The Big Fight ( for .......)
he was up for the fight but not with fists
the line was tenuous between success and disaster
between happiness and ultimate misery
disaster would have been wonderful to the heart
whereas success seemed a little mundane
but deep down he knew he had to keep fighting
he was up for a brawl but not with aggression
the heart would say stop
the mind would say carry on
the mind knew the wrong decision was life ruining
the heart did too but it was beyond treachery
logic and fantasy go head to head
deep down he knew he had to keep brawling
he was up for a punch up but not with temper
he willingly ran the gauntlet every day
that is, the heart, not the mind
the mind would attack with reason
the heart would dream in self defense
logic and fantasy roll around in the dust
he knew he had to keep punching
the heart cowered away in the end defeated
but it can see where the cracks are
and will bide it's time for the next fight
however the mind will strengthen itself
through self examination, reason and logic
to win the fight to do what's right
because to do what's right is worth fighting for
that's why deep down he loved fighting
but not with fists.
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| going up Slioch'. . . the wrong way! |
The House that Jack Built
on a beach innocent people are falling
overhead the Terns to their mates are calling
on another beach a tanker of oil is spilt
could this be the end for 'the house that Jack built' ?
the Monarch dried it's wings
disintegrating towers under New York skies
on a night of a billion butterflies
to their wintering grounds takes five generations
over polluted rivers and power stations
the Monarch stretched it's wings
vast holes in the ozone, vast holes in the sky
in the domain where the Monarchs used to fly
the Milkweed has gone and hence they have no food
so that was the end of their little brood
capitalism stretched it's wings
on the beach you can see the little children play
but their castles made of sand are soon washed away
a golden white arc, of wind firmed sand and silt
the tide swept away 'the house that Jack built'
the Monarch dried it's wings.
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| This little beaut is actually a Comma |
The way it is
a wind firmed expanse of vast red sand may move some to tears but to others it is just a beach
an African Marigold may to some be a tethered Butterfly but to others it's just a flower
an avalanche of water over patient stones may to some be poetry in motion but to others it's just a waterfall.
a Valkyrian steeplechase of a ridge to some is the epitome of imagination yet to others it's just a mountain.
a deep rolling glen drawing your eyes hungrily to a cavorting river may leave some running out of adjectives but to others it's just a valley
but a full rainbow stretched over a loch can distract the most secular person on earth!
Iona
we came on the other side of the sun
in spite of the vagaries of the weather
a slight change upon your face was now spun
rain and wind at the end of it's tether
and the wind called Iona
the garment of earth was a deep green gleam
your white beach fringed coast held it's freshness
summery overtures of spring's broken seam
sunset hilltops all dancing in richness
and the wind cried Iona
from the hilltop I could just see the ruin
but who has awareness of history
obeisant monks here once shuffled within
St Columba too was a mystery
and the wind howls Iona
houses all huddled in affections fold
as a rainstorm slowly gathers in pace
we will come back and watch the sun turn gold
in newly painted primrose embrace
and the wind screamed Iona.
Peanuts in Paradise!
the man on the mountain that towers above Scoraig
see's the sun grow large like an orange disc
and the slender finger of green stretch into the sea
with eyes of discernment
he sees surf blow off the loch like words
and the grass flattened by poetry!
with insight, the man on the mountain
learns to love what he hates
he used to be afflicted with foul weather
until the words started dancing together
it is no longer a cruel intoxication
rather, it is nurtured
the man on the mountain that towers above Scoraig
sees sweet freedom move in a world without rebuke
the man on the mountain
sees barren namelessnes
and toil and sweat
configured at the centre of his vision
but he sees from the eyes within his head
spotted orchids on long summer days
and he knows the land is a leveler
because all the community
till the same barrenness
although he is getting hard of hearing
he knows the handful of children (five)
aren't clothed with all the latest buzzwords
they are tethered to a slice of normality
in a manacled world
they grin at their abandonment
and laugh at their captivity
they know, like we all know
one day they will have to leave
dangerous
demanding but
essential
the joy that escaped from the city
was bequeathed to the Scoraig peninsular
virtues of sleat rolled across the loch
like a curtain at a theater
the man on the mountain that towers above Scoraig
envies the Teacher that will be paid
Peanuts to work in Paradise
An advert for a Teaching position in Britain's most remote primary school, on the Scoraig peninsular, originally appeared in the Gairloch and District Times, under the caption ' Teacher required, to be paid peanuts to work in Paradise! ' The situation again became vacant in 2015, the Daily Mail stressed the applicant must be physically and emotionally stable, have a sense of adventure and must have their own boat! At the time of writing the position wasn't filled!
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| Scoraig peninsular from Ben Globlach. Only accessible by boat or seven mile hike. |
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| Scoraig primary school |
A Psychologists guide to Jenga
honest commited
weak willed
determined focused
distracted
patient mild kind
intolerant
industrious thoughtful
apathetic
resolved steadfast
indiscreet
zealous affectionate
rude mean
balanced responsible
wavering
guileless conscientious
deceitful
positive gracious
careless
prudent generous
stupid
unprejudiced creative
lazy
limits boundaries correction discipline goals commendation recognition direction humility
love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love
Steve
Steve went home as he did every night
to hear his parents bicker and fight
I visited once and could not believe
how these scrapping parents ever conceived Steve!
down in the playground the kids played football
while Steve stood alone and stared at the wall
he'd talk to himself, try to tie the loose ends
Steve was a Loner, he didn't have any friends
his parents locked horns without any remorse
it wasn't long before they got a divorce
Steve ended up living with his Mother
it wasn't long before she found another
down in the playground the kids hold their races
a few bully boys would put Steve through his paces
the odd child would engage him or at least have a try
but in the end Steve would just stand there and cry
he never saw his Dad he soon moved abroad
Steve wrote a few letters but they were ignored
the new fellow was nice, he'd take Steve for a walk
but that was hard work because Steve wouldn't talk
down in the playground child sweethearts embrace
Steve's not there now there's just an empty space
I never did know what happened to Steve
life can be cruel for kids, that I firmly believe.
Why?
why do I waste my time writing silly poems?
could I not make better use of my time?
maybe learn a trade and be really useful
why do I have to keep going on 'word hippo'
to try and make words rhyme?
could I not make better use of my time?
maybe even learn to use a computer
why do I walk around the Highlands
scribbling down words on a notepad
could I not make better use of my time?
maybe do an open university course...
and become a Teacher!
then I could make some money
spend more time up in the Motherland
getting lost on some Scottish hills
mmmmmm. . .
and come home and write poems about them!
Cars don't cry
His car hit mine
He was exaspereated
I thought he was going to cry
but he didn't
and neither did his car
and neither did mine
His children were happy
His wife was happy
His home was a haven of peace
mine was too
we are not made out of metal
cars are made out of metal
precision engineering
but still metal
they have no feelings
like any material object
but people are not made of metal
they have feelings
they have memories
they have passions
they have opinions
but most of all they have the ability to
love
when people are afflicted with tragedy
they cry
cars don't
accidents do happen
cars don't cry.
Her hands
when I stroked her hand love entered my heart
of our own love story this was just the start
when I caress her delicate angular fingers
that warmth in my heart forever lingers
I just love her fingers because they are so slender
I was submerged in love from a touch of her splendour
I'm still holding her heart I'm still holding her hand
from the morning right through to the evening land.
Painting with words
serene summer beauty wonder lonely
twilight melody night rage elegant
rose tinted sweet violent pigment solitude
snow content landscape cloudbank delicate
dawn music soft morning floating
velvet forlorn jealousy touch shadows
(i)
on pushing open the bothy door
fatigue was suppressed by wonder
a lonely copse of trees
danced in the raging wind
as if they were trying to swim.
Loch Ericht stretched itself out in serene elegance
it's small waves attacked the shore
with military precision.
I painted a dawn of distilled beauty
a scene of inconceivable solitude
overhead the sky was biscuit tin blue
all couched in the sweet embrace of a coral pink morning
I put the finishing touches on a delicate passing cloud bank
as it floated carefree over hills as white as wedding gowns.
I wanted to paint the trees upright like a regiment
and the loch without a wrinkle on it's placid depths
but the Great Artist said ... NO!
If you go to the wilderness you go on it's terms!
(ii)
walking the North Glen Sheil ridge I couldn't paint with light
this mountain scenery wasn't going to be imprisoned by a camera
a place of real and rare enchantment
it was as if nature was suddenly in a trance
wandering bands of sunshine
brought out rose tinted pigments from the land
in an instant of time, doom laden clouds
covered the peaks like a curtain at a theater
I complained bitterly because the Mountain forecast
had promised 90 per cent chance
of cloud free peaks
but the Great Artist said
mountains never make any promises
neither do they break any.
(iii)
a premature twilight was ushered in
as galleons of cumulus prepared for battle
Strath Carron's two sentries stood resolute
against a backdrop of a velvet night we waited
we anticipated a violent category of sound
like the sound of a thunder head rumbling
but the Great Artist turned down the volume
as the clouds brushed the vellum of the hills
as soft as music.
(iv)
life's ascending sun fell friendly on our upturned faces
shafts of light spread the colour of life through blinks of tattered cloud
the forlorn corrie was startled from it's reverie
Culra bothy seamlessly fitted into the sweep of the landscape
here lies an almost touchable melody of sweet contentment
in the deepening summer greens, hills stood in angled ranks
there in the shadowed tweed of the glen
lies the 'short leachas'.
In the near distance, like a contented lion
lies the 'long leachas' still jealously holding on to it's winter snow
I wanted to paint four figures on the 'long leachas'
but the Great Artist said NO!!!
A sleeping lion is still a dangerous creature.
In the above I endeavored to articulate with words what cannot be captured by a camera. But is it really possible? The Great Artist said some things will always elude us.
Echoes
the snow on the mountains
the azure blue skies
heat comes in waves
from the azure blue skies
the snow on the mountains
holds out to strong sunshine
the icing on the cake
the Peacock feather lake
like Barnacles on a ship
is the snow on the mountains
relentless sunshine
on images of green
relentless sunshine
in a green calming world
azure blue skies
in a green healing balm
a gentle seam of blue
a twisting ribbon of blue
azure blue skies
relentless sunshine
the snow on the mountains
the icing on the cake
the Peacock feather lake
virtue poured down the mountains
take me to the turquoise
take me to the turquoise
take me to the turquoise
of the Peacock feather lake
Shadows
I've seen the hills roll out of sight
I've seen a Sea Eagle in flight
slept in bothies cold as stone
trekked the mountains all alone
bivvied under crimson skies
landscapes decked with Butterflies
sailed to places out of reach
seen the Curlews on the beach
rolled round with my kids on the floor
I could go on forever more
memories forever massing
yet the pleasure's in the passing
Beyond the sunset
the bond between the seasons is so thin
shade my eyes I see beyond the sunset
a new world of peace where there's no sin
no hate no war, a different mindset
children play again there are no graves
there feet fall softly on the green hills
only violence is the crash of waves
we punch the air of trailing windmills
laughter resonates in all our eyes
on the crest of a prow a young child sings
exploding mauve in vermilion skies
even Butterflies don't have broken wings
autumn leaves fall around our feet
depths of snow now pose no threat
and resurrected ones I yearn to meet
I want to see beyond the sunset.
'' the Monarch stretched it's wings ''
and finally...
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| marriage is all about sharing! |
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| The Author/ Poet on having his latest Blog read to him! |
Adieaux, please comment sparingly as it takes me hours to reply to them all. Love et all. Markles.
