You were never bold. As a boy you

Beheld the world from distance, as if

The cliff edge was closer. But

Behind those beautiful eyes were

Lands of your own making, where

Wild beasts roamed, unfettered.


Why do all those small cruelties outweigh a

Thousand kindnesses? Why do

Softest souls wound deepest?

Would that it were possible to stay

Inside those dreams you had

But only half remember.


But you were always brave. It requires courage

To take a good long look but then still leap.

Sure, the horizon seemed no closer after the

Small steps, but you made them anyway.

And when days are dark from the doubting,

Take shelter my son. It never rains forever.


The life singing in you is not just journey,

Nor located at some distant destination.

It is here. It is now. It’s what happens

When wounds half-heal but bleed not

Blood, but good. It is not in the width of things

But their depth. It’s a rediscovery of love.

The ghost…

The ghost


From felled tree to sawn timber

Length and breadth and width

Perpendicular faces, finished smooth with

Meeting points measured out between

Upright and horizontal

Dovetail and tenons cut

The raising up from this old ground

Of a brand-new human structure

Where people shelter

Beneath the shaped bones

Of what was here before

Hope has breath…



They say that hope comes

Only in the harshest times

When we need it most


I see it there in your eye

Feel it as our fingers touch

As our minds entwine


Inside this skin that bottles me

It moves like a liquid

Waiting for your cup


Not just the hope with feathers

But also sinew and carved stone

It is bone on bone


And when friends meet

Hope has breath

Hope has viral load

Psalms of privilege…

Have you read the psalms recently?

An ancient hymn book, full of messages celebrating privilege. Celebrating a relationship with God who is on OUR side. The one who will kick ass on our behalf.

Of course, there is so much more than that in this wonderful ancient poetry – lament, hope, beauty, thankfulness, stillnes – but on one level, they were written as Israel-first propganda.

The danger is that we adopt them as a personal me-first version of the same.

Consider the most famous of them all, psalm 22. We wheel it out when we need it, like some kind of holy comfort blanket. It is beautiful, full of hope and assurance, offering us the hope of God on our side. I read it over and over this week because I am preparing to lead the funeral of a dear friend of ours.

We will desperately need psalm 22.

Beyond this, I found myself wondering what else this psalm had to say to me right now, and wrote this poem.

Psalm 23


If God is my shepherd, why worry?

Why let anxiety crack the night?

Why let fear of failure pin me

Like a blunt spear?


If I lie down in green pastures

Why must I mortgage?

Why chase a wage?

Why scratch upwards for success?


If I am led beside still waters

Why must I stare into inky depth

And wonder when my ship

Will come in?


If I walk through darkest valleys

And still fear evil

Must I arm myself with

My very own rod and staff?


If God would load a table for me

In front of hungry enemies, could I eat?

For surely I’d be sick to my stomach

If I failed to share?


If anointed, what am I anointed for?

What makes me so special?

Is it because I am white, male, British?

What if I fall from favour?


If goodness and mercy follow after me

Is that like holy magic, or must I make it?

Is it a get-out-of-jail card or an invocation

To become a conduit for love?


If I am to dwell in the house of the Lord

Will my room have wifi and a good view?

Or will it be a shelter for the homeless where

Even people like me are welcome?

The dance of the enslaved…

I found this recent series on the BBC very moving.

It featured Samuel L Jackson, an underwater archaelogy team, and some historians shining light on the international slave trade, both here in the UK and in the wider world.

They visited forts on the coast of Africa where slaves were gathered ready for export, and marvelled at the fact that in the centre of the courtyard was a large church.

One story stuck with me, of how the purpose-designed slave ships, carrying men women and children that had been forcibly torn from their homelands, were brought up on deck to excercise. This was not done for humanitarian reasons, but to reduce the numbers who died en route and to make sure that the price they would fetch in the markets they were heading towards was high because they would be in better condition. It was about stock management.

However, it then takes another dark turn. When they were brought on to deck, they were made to dance.




Once upon a time, people were bought and sold like lawnmowers,

Or second-hand Hondas. Enterprising Christian young men sought their

Fortunes in foreign fields, chasing white ivory or black bodies, both of

Which were worth the trouble because (back then) acquisition

Was a moral imperative. After all, elephants and black people were  

Dumb beasts, whose misfortune was to have economic value elsewhere.

It was dirty business, sawing tusks and chaining black children

So small wonder our heroes took carnal comfort between the unwilling

Legs of black women. They were men of science, designing fine ships that ensured

Their valuable assets were always transported efficiently

 Every inch stacked and shackled but because our men were not monsters

They knew good management of stock meant value must be preserved and wastage

Minimised so each day the enslaved were pulled out on deck and made to


The choice to forgive…

This poem is nothing to do with Donald Trump.

Apart from the fact that Trump is us. An extreme version of us, perhaps. The Hyper-us. He makes a virtue out of anger and malevolence. In Trump world, forgiveness is weakness and weakness is for losers.

Non of us are immune from this thinking, both in relation to others and even towards ourselves. It is so much easier to feel outrage and anger when faced with opposition and percieved injustice.

Or we could choose to forgive, no matter how hard this may be, and see where this takes us.

I choose to forgive


To you who find me wanting

I choose to forgive

You who delight in my misfortune

I choose to forgive

Who forensically dissect my weakness

I choose to forgive

When you deliberately misunderstand

I choose to forgive

You who speak harsh words against me

I choose to forgive


When I fail and when I fall

I choose to forgive

When I hate the man I am

I choose to forgive

When the mirror does not lie

I choose to forgive

When my reach exceeds by grasp

I choose to forgive

Even when I fail to forgive

I choose to forgive


When we fail to do our best

I choose to forgive

When we polarise

I choose to forgive

When we build up higher walls

I choose to forgive

When we lie and cheat and steal

I choose to forgive

When we win at any cost

I choose to forgive

I choose to forgive

Regrets, we will all have a few…

Grappling with the news of the death of an old friend. A long life, well lived with much love. Rest in peace, and may those left behind hold some of you for ever.



When death comes, it first brings regret

For all those things said or not said

For poor omissions and commissions

For generational gaps it was never

Possible to bridge


But let time be your kindness

Then pain might become less a pointing finger

And become instead that precious ache inside

Letting you know you were loved

And that you loved too in return


(A juvenile whale has washed up on the Cowal shoreline- thought to be one of a group of three that have been in the upper Clyde estuary for weeks. The animal was emaciated and out of place.)



In the pre-dawn premonition

Before even half-light

A whisper of wings overhead

Felt, not seen (leaving me to wonder

Whether birds-eye views might help

Or hinder) Then a dark shape in the shallows, half

Submerged. Bulk no longer moving

With the waters, A hidden fluke flat to the sand

Like a lost cutlass


Incarnate no more

Just a carcass


In case we ever doubt that beasts feel grief

The parents swim in circles in the bay

And whilst we should avoid all anthropomorphic platitudes

I fear they are feeling guilt, as if that sonar shock which

Blew them up, too fast, from the dark depths

Was their fault

Not ours

The woman beneath the hill of the world…

The woman beneath the hill of the world


They say the earth is a woman

Wrapped in a gossamer layer of

Brown-green skin

Runnelled and pooled by

Salt tears


They say the woman is barren, for her sterile

Soils are not fed from the falling leaves

Now the trees are long gone, and

The long tresses of her long green hair

Are stored as silage


They say the woman mourns for her children

Whose bones now brine the ocean, and

Whose dawn songs are no longer sung

Whose savannahs have all

Been stolen


They say that the woman speaks to mountains

But they no longer listen. That she

Looks for signs in the distant stars but their blink

Is blurred by the smoke from

Burning forests


They say the woman would write her story

Except that the black ink in her wells

Has all been pumped dry, and

The tail-feather-quills from her favourite flightless bird

Have been plucked


The woman has not gone away, they say

For she has nowhere else to go

No place beyond these fields for her

Nor grounds she could lay down

So beneath this hill she stays

The coming winter…

(To quote Michaela; “I just love wearing big jumpers.”)

The coming of winter


It is not the loss of light

It is the revealing

Of a candle’s flame


It is not the loss of leaves

It is the finest tracery

Fingering a steel-grey sky


It is not the vice of ice

But the delicious itch of scarf, and

Air stratified by woodsmoke


It is not incessant soaking rain

But a musical blessing to be found

Behind window panes


It is not cruelty

It is a jubilee, when rested lands, like

human hands, fall fallow


It is not cold

It is a well-stoked fire

Drawing both of us closer