Alexander's writing

And There Were Shepherds

2011-12-10T07:47:00.000-08:00

Did you all get that?

That was the angel of the Lord.

Yes it was George.

So, who wants to go?

Who wants to stay?

No George, it’s to see this thing that has come to pass.

I don’t know what sort of thing.

You all heard the Angel thingy thing,

And the Heavenly Host that came after didn’t you?

Oh, you were being sore afraid were you?

Anyone else, apart from George, being sore afraid?

No, it wasn’t a savoury, it was a Saviour.

And it wasn’t peas, it was peace.

No, not a piece of anything,

Peace, like when you’re quiet.

No, I didn’t know I needed saving, did you?

No, I don’t know if your wife is involved.

Does she need saving?

No. but you do from her?

Is this relevant?

Well George you will just have to work that out for yourself.

Now then, we are invited to go to Bethlehem

By the sort of folk who like to be obeyed.

Yes I do know it’s not convenient

But the Babe sounds kind of important.

No George, it’s not just any old baby

It’s going to be Christ the Lord, and it’s going to be a great joy.

What on earth did you think that Angel was on about?

Well that’s up to you George,

The glory of the Lord is quite wasted on you.

So, ignoring George,

As convener of the Abiding Shepherds

I call for a vote.

Those in favour say ‘Yowe’.

Ok, that’s all of us, George you can stay.

Yes, I know you’ve a bad leg.

It’s because you’ve got a bad leg.

Yes, I know it only hurts when it’s cold.

Yes, I do know it’s cold.

The rest of you can leave your flocks

George will look after them.

Yes George, it is a great responsibility

But you are old enough and daft enough to cope.

Let’s hear it for George

There now, feel better?

Well that’s good.

And yes George, we’ll bring you back something.

Selfshelf Update - part 1

2011-11-16T06:28:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was quite a nice man who generally minded his own business unless he was minding some one else’s, a thing he does less now than heretofore. So there he was moving gently through life with just enough aggravation to keep him alert; when unexpectedly he found himself making an unscheduled visit to hospital where concern was translated into an extremely fast ambulance trip to another larger hospital, the Southern General no less, sadly not named for a participant in the American Civil War. Though being in Glasgow it could well have been.

This urgency came about, when with what can only be called malice aforethought, his gall bladder, which you may remember had already had one go at relocating; decided that life in the pinky dark was still not all it might be. Slowly but surely the gallbladder set about creating a feeling of deep unease as the first phase in its escape plan, and then paused to gauge the results. The quite nice man took a painkiller or two and tried to ignore the discomfort.

Not content with this response the gallbladder began a more positive course of action and attempted to push out the gallstone it had been secretly accreting over time, causing the quite nice man considerable pain.

Unfortunately as is the way with such schemes not enough thought had been given to how this was going to be achieved, there being a considerable discrepancy between the size of the stone and the exit tube. Gallbladders have no concept of forward planning, it’s all instant gratification and me me me . Having blocked the only exit, it settled on becoming inflamed and infected, winning the accolade of ‘Pus filled sack’, with such an award it was sure that this would be a successful exit strategy.

Sadly it failed to appreciate the consequences of becoming to big for its designated body site, and the quite nice mans lung got in the way, and became compressed, thus seriously depleting the quite nice mans life support system. At first put down to a fit of pique on the part of the gallbladder, it was in fact just an unintended consequence.

The very clever and also nice Mr Smith, whose first name is Graeme, was going to excise the gallbladder until this event, but acting on the advice of the anaesthetist*, also a very nice man, postponed the operation until the chances of survival improved. The quite nice man’s even nicer wife concurred.

The gallbladder was given a very serious talking to by a variety of very serious anti-biotics which gathered round and in fact overwhelmed the gallbladder such that it slunk away and resumed its place, lurking with a very bad grace. Fortunately for the quite nice man his lung gradually expanded and breathing became easier.

The very clever and nice Mr Smith is going to have another go in early November. The slash and splash technique much favoured in the past will be dusted off. Due to the size of the gallbladder and content, less invasive methods are unlikely to be successful. The very clever and nice Mr Smith is looking forward to getting red to the elbows. The plan is to do this before the gallstone learns to crawl and talk.

It is hoped that the gallbladder doesn’t get wind of this and try for an earlier exit. It should perhaps be pointed out that gallbladders are ill prepared for life on the outside, and that this particular ones chance of survival is negligible.

It is hoped that its offspring, the gallstone, now an impressive 2.5 cm, can be saved for posterity and a place found for it in a cabinet of curiosities, or possibly mounted in a silver claw as a pendant, so the gallbladders efforts will not have been in vain.

* - name of anaesthetist not known.

Accidental Lover

2011-11-13T02:04:00.000-08:00

I broke my left arm falling from a tree

When I was twelve and immortal

I broke my right leg, falling over the cat

Rushing to turn off the Archers

I broke my ankle falling off the curb

Running after an ice cream van

I broke my left leg falling down a rabbit hole

When running after the dog

I broke my right arm falling down the stairs

When sleep walking

I broke my heart

Falling for you

©Alexander Hamilton November 2011

Dogs Dilemma

2011-11-02T05:16:00.000-07:00

Oh snuffle wuff wuff

What is that SMELL?

I want it,

I want to lick it

To chew it,

I want to roll in it

To love it

I’ll just ………

No I won’t

The man says NO

My heart says YES

I shall follow my heart

No I won’t, the man has a peppermint

Praps I’ll stay

He may have two.

©Alexander Hamilton November 2011

Early one morning whilst leaning on a gate

2011-10-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

Early one morning whilst leaning on a gate

I didn’t see the cows today

No swishing tail no hook of horn no moo

BUT I did see a Camel

A knock kneed grumpy Camel

Heading for the train station

I didn’t see the sheep today

No Bo no Peep no sheep

BUT I did see an Elephant

A big grey baggy Elephant

Heading for the bus stop

I didn’t see the pigs today

No curly tail no oink no grunt

BUT I did see a Giraffe

A stiff legged patchwork Giraffe

Heading for the airport

I didn’t see the chickens today

No cluck no flutter no egg

BUT I did see a Lion

A walking stalking Lion

Heading for the Co-Op

I didn’t see the ducks today

No waddle no paddle no quack

BUT I did see a Hippopotamus

A yawning wide mouthed Hippopotamus

Heading for the swimming pool

I didn’t see the dog today

No woof no wag no bark

BUT I did see a Rhinoceros

A grumbling mumbling horned Rhinoceros

Heading for the taxi rank

I didn’t see the cat today

No purr no me no ow

BUT I did see a Bat

A pointy toothed Vampire Bat

Heading for the belfry

Sometime later, same place

Alas I didn’t see the knock kneed grumpy Camel

Holding out his train ticket

BUT I did see the cows today

Swishy tail chewy cud mooy moo

Heading for their pasture

Alas I didn’t see the great big baggy Elephant

Holding out his bus pass

BUT I did see the sheep today

Baa baa woolly baa baa

Heading for their fold

Alas I didn’t see the stiff legged patchwork Giraffe

Holding out his boarding pass

BUT I did see the pigs today

Curly tail snuffy snout oinky oink

Heading for their sty

Alas I didn’t see the walking stalking Lion

Holding out his dividend coupon

BUT I did see the chickens today

Clucky cluck pecky peck peck

Heading for their coop

Alas I didn’t see the yawning wide mouthed Hippopotamus

Holding out his Pool Membership card

BUT I did see the ducks today

Waddle waddle quack quack

Heading for their pond

Alas I didn’t see the grumbling mumbling horned Rhinoceros

Holding out his leg to hail a cab

BUT I did see the dog today

Woofy woof sniffy sniff wag

Heading for his kennel

Alas I didn’t see the pointy toothed Vampire Bat

Holding out an invitation to a late night party

BUT I did see the cat today

Purring and licking and tidying her fur

Heading absolutely no where at all

And neither am I.

©Alexander Hamilton October 2011

Somebody did it better!

2011-10-06T03:24:00.000-07:00

Should old friendships be forgotten

And never remembered

Should old friendships be forgotten

And days of old long since

For old long since, dear friend

For old long since

We’ll still drink a glass of something nice

For old long since

The two of us have run about the hills

And picked the pretty daisies

But we have walked lots of miles

Since old long since

The two of us have paddled in the stream

All day

But wide seas have roared between us

For old long since

Shake my hand my very good friend

And let me shake yours

And we will drink a jolly good drink

For old long since

And surely you will be your own pint glass

Certainly I’ll be mine

And we will drink a glass of something nice

For old long since.

©Alexander Hamilton 2011

TO-MORROW

2011-09-19T01:43:00.001-07:00

Hand in hand

We ran lightly up the stairs

To the doorway to my to-morrow

To-morrow it would be our to-morrow

We stopped, unsure

I looked at my door

A bit shabby and not at all inviting

The bell had never worked

“Should we knock” she asked

I looked at her, then back

Her door was shiny with a brass knocker

Her faith in to-morrow greater than mine

‘If we knock, who will open?’

I looked back at the rest of today

Perhaps I was being hasty

There was all I was familiar with

Opportunities not yet taken

Friends being left behind

She reached up to the knocker

I stayed her hand

Perhaps we should just try the handle

I reached past her, the door didn’t budge

“Here, let me” and she pushed lightly

The door swung open to her bright to-morrow

For me there was shadow, and drab uncertainty

I hesitated to step forward, resisted her insistent pull

I stumbled through and clung, confused and lost

“Oh do get a grip my love!” she said

And lovingly she watched as I relinquished my doubts

My clouds and my shadows shrank

And her sun became my sun, and we were as one

Through the door we ran lightly up the stairs

Towards the doorway to all our to-morrows

For there is always a door and always a to-morrow

And this door had a well prepared undercoat

We would choose the colour to-morrow

That nice Mr Dulux has such nice shades.

©Alexander Hamilton 2011

Conversation with a bathroom mirror

2011-09-09T01:46:00.001-07:00

What are you looking at?

Not a lot

Well it’s all there is

Is it really the best you can do?

What do you mean? I’m not that bad

Are you seeing the same eyes as I am?

Well, okay praps a bit bloodshot, but a nice blue

And what about the hair?

What hair?

Exactly, I remember it being dark brown

Where have you been, it went silver years ago

You don’t seem to spend much time in front of me

There is less and less to look at

The teeth have started to go

I can see the hair tufts in your ears

Thank you very much!

The baggy bits under your eyes are getting bigger

Thank you very much!

It’s a good job you can only see a bit of you in me

If I stand on tip toe and peer down I can see more

Do you really want to?

There is more to see than before

So I see.

If I suck my belly in it looks all right

And how long can you keep that up?

Long enough to remember

As in ‘Where is the six-pack of yesteryear’?

Something like that, though it was more a four-pack

At least you don’t have to shave

A beard still needs trimming

Can you close your mouth when you gargle?

It wouldn’t be a gargle if I did

Well look the other way

You’re awfully sensitive for a mirror

I only ever see the tiles opposite as a rule

I’m not used to so much of you

Praps if you didn’t wipe the steam off

Then I couldn’t see myself

Exactly.

©Alexander Hamilton 2011

A poey poey poem

2011-09-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

In the hushy hushy hush of the empty housey house

The only thing moving was a mousey mousey mouse

In crept a boysie boy looking for a lark

Creepy creepy creeping in the dimmy dimmy dark

He screamy screamy screamed at a ghostly ghosty ghost

But all it really really was, was a posty posty post

He scarey scarey scared himself with a squeaky squeaky toy

And he ranny ranny ran away did the boysie boysie boy

He trippy trippy tripped and bangy banged his head

And wishy wishy wished he was in his beddy bed bed.

Then he wokey wokey woke in a knotty knot of sheets

With a lump on his heady head and dirty feety feets.

©Alexander Hamilton 2011

Oh the Wigtown ladies sing this song

2011-08-23T03:04:00.000-07:00

Oh the Wigtown ladies sing this song

(to be sung to the tune of Camptown Races)

Oh the Wigtown ladies sing this song

Och aye, och aye

The Scones are warm, the jam is too

Oh och aye the noo

Going to bake all night, going to cook all day

They bake their cakes in a microwave

Oh och aye the noo

The Ladies Circle is knitting gloves

Och aye, och aye

For their true and only loves

Oh och aye the noo

Going to bake all night, going to cook all day

They bake their cakes in the Agaga

Oh och aye the noo

They write short stories and poems too

Och aye, Och aye

Some you can’t read and the rest are blue

Oh och the noo

Going to write all night going to write all day

They write with quills from birds they kill

Oh och aye the noo

Oh the Wigtown ladies can’t be beat

Och aye, och aye

With hands like hams and great big feet

Oh och aye the noo.

Going to write all night, going to write all day

In the blood from a cat but a dog will do

Oh och aye the noo.

©Alexander Hamilton August 2011

Reverend Doctor Robert Walker

2011-07-05T08:58:00.000-07:00

After a painting attributed to Rayburn

Skoosh, skoosh, wheesh

Round the minister comes again

Nothing fancy, but oh so smart

Bible black suit stark against the ice

White neckcloth stark against the black

The cloth he is a man of

A study in considered dressing

And in that hat

No rakish angle here

A hat with gravitas

And now a study in considered skating,

He takes his pursuits seriously

Close fitting clothing for ease of movement

Reveals a nicely turned calf

Proud of his calves is the minister

A light shoe emphasises the ankle just so

Is he working on a sermon, in the peace on the ice?

No, he slows as he approaches a huddled figure

Leg held just so

Head held just so

Arms crossed just so

He sneaks a quick look at the easel in passing

Well wrapped and red nosed the artist waves

Skoosh, skoosh wheesh

The minister pushes off

Perhaps a bit more effort

But nothing unseemly

After all, the Revd. Doc. Robert Walker

Has an image to maintain

But oh to be able to skate the Canongate

What a figure he would cut!

Fishing Boats

2011-02-19T03:02:00.000-08:00

Up the loch and down the loch

And all round about

The fishing boats on Fishing Day

Are all going out

Some of them are painted green

Some of them are pink

And they’re the ones that catch the fish

No matter what you think

They catch their fish

In gingham nets

And sail with velvet sails

And when they’ve finished catching cod

They’re going after whales

It’s a hard life of salty strife

And the windy winds give fright

But an eiderdown and a teddy bear

Will see you through the night

So drop your anchor pretty boys

And haul your catch ashore

And tell the folks on the harbourside

You’ll be going out for more

And tell them of the fashion fish

The strangest fish you’d seen

This big long and this big wide

And a rather fetching green

With lots and lots of crimson spots

From the tip of its nose to its tail

And they argued long

And they argued late

That it really was a whale

And round they’d strut

In their Gucci boots

With their chiffon scarves a flying

Daring anyone who had the balls

To accuse them all of lying

©Alexander Hamilton February 2010

Holiday Beach

2011-01-04T01:48:00.000-08:00

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the curly sandwich
To the dog turd island
This sand is made from you and me

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the long dead seagull
To the oil spill island
This sand is made from you and me

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the hypodermic needle
To the condom island
This sand is made from you and me

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the sewage out fall
To the floating flyland
This sand is made from you and me

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the nuclear coolant
To the dead whale island
This sand is made from you and me

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the ice cream cornet
To the bucket and spade island
This sand is made from you and me

This sand is my sand
This sand is your sand
This sand belongs to you and me
From the arcade music
To the traffic island
This sand is made from you and me

My sand is dangerous
Your sand is dangerous
This sand is bad for me and you
From the council backhanders
To the planning blight island
Our sand is poisoning the sea

©Alexander Hamilton January 2011

Bit Part Players – (A companion piece)

2010-12-23T09:53:00.000-08:00

Clattering down the rock strewn slope, the Donkey, dusty and rough coated
Stopped at the cross roads, and contemplated the four options
They all looked the same to him
The light was failing and a few stars gleamed
Across from him he saw movement, and arriving as he had, was a large Cow
She looked mournfully across at him “Come far?” she asked
He bobbed his head and twitched an ear
She scratched her flank with a horn “Me too”
And they stood looking at one another
They both turned at a light pattering sound
A large black dog with a white blaze
Stood panting in the middle of the road
“Hello” he gruffed “Going my way?”
Donkey looked at Cow, Cow looked at Donkey
They both looked at Dog
“Um” said Donkey “Err” said Cow
“That’ll be yes then” gruffed Dog “What else are you here for?”
Cow shrugged and said mournfully
“It seemed like the thing to do” and scratched her other flank
Donkey twitched his ears and said “It seemed like the place to be”
“Well, my names Star, ‘cos of my white patch, see?” said Dog
‘What are your names?”
Donkey said he didn’t know, but the boys who stoned him
Called him Wonky Donkey
“Because I limp”
“So shall I call you Donkey?” Asked Star
“’Spose so” said Donkey, “I am one”
“And how about you?” Star asked
Cow shrugged and said mournfully, “I don’t have a name,
A man slaps me and says ‘Move over cow’ and that’s it”
“So shall I call you Cow?” Asked Star, “Well it’s a name of sorts” said Cow
Dog cocked his head and flicked an ear, “Does anyone know where we are going?”
Donkey looked at Cow, Cow looked at Donkey
Both looked at Dog, “Don’t you?”
“Not really, just got this feeling, had to get up and go”
“Do you suppose anything else is coming?” Asked Donkey
“It’s getting a bit late for travelling” gruffed Dog
“I’d like to go to sleep, it’s been a long day” mourned Cow
“Fresh start in the morning then” gruffed Dog
Dog watched as Donkey and Cow mooched about, looking to settle
Until they found a sandy patch out of the wind
Dog politely sniffed at both, then snuggled up against Donkey
The creak of leather and jingle of harness
Woke the three unlikely friends
Dog watched as horses and camels pranced and swayed
And swarthy men shouted and slapped
Pausing only briefly they took the westerly road
“They’ll be stopping soon, they’ve travelled all night” said Dog
Cow moaned and lurched up, peering over the rocks
Donkey stood and shook off a cloud of dust and debris
“We’ll get going once they’ve settled” said Star
Very carefully Donkey and Cow followed Star through the sleeping encampment
Donkey whiffled up some hay, Cow munched up some oats
Star, after a quick sniff, made off with a bone
“Seems they have been following a star” said Dog
“So are we” snickered Donkey, Cow just rolled her eyes
They travelled slowly, favouring Donkey’s limp, which suited Cow
But Star raced ahead impatient
“Come on! Come on! There’s houses next”
Donkey and Cow stood on a rise
And gloomed down at a few ramshackle hovels
“Well! Shelter for the night, that’s welcome” Donkey was nearly happy
“Mmm” said Cow mournfully
“This could be it! I think this is the place” gruffed Star excitedly
And ran ahead to sniff out the buildings
Cow loomed through the doorway of one “There’s hay in here, this’ll do”
“I think it’s the other one” said Star “It smells like honey and stuff”
“Any hay?” asked Cow, and Donkey, after a nudge
“No, but it really smells nice” urged Star, but the others wouldn’t budge
He settled in the doorway to watch
A man and a woman came slowly along the road
And approached the building, Star wagged and panted a welcome
But when the man saw the Donkey and Cow he moved on
Star noticed he chose the nice smelling building
The three animals settled for the night
The creak of leather and jingle of harness woke Star
“Wake up! Wake up! They’re here” Star roused Donkey and Cow
“Oh not again!” groused Cow
The horses pranced and the camels swayed
As a group of colourfully clad men went into the house
“Look! Said Donkey nodding upwards, “There’s their star”
“That’s why they travel at night, I expect” mourned Cow
“What’s it all about, all this travel and commotion” complained Donkey
“Must be important, or we wouldn’t all be here, I’ll go and see” said Star
Shortly he came back, smiling and capering
Donkey and Cow looked enquiringly at him
“Oh do stop that” said Cow crossly “Can’t abide a fidget”
“Well it seems the baby is very special”
“Baby?” Donkey looked puzzled
Cow said “My calves were very special too”
“Yes well” said Dog “There’s lots more, but it’s beyond me”
Cow contemplated the comings and goings next door
“I wonder if we should be over there” she said mournfully
“Doing what exactly?” asked Donkey
“I don’t know, looking on I suppose” “Well we are doing” replied Donkey
“It was a blazes of a long walk, just to look on” Cow grumped
Dog looked from one to the other and shook his head
“We’ve been chosen to witness an extraordinary event”
“Mmm” said Cow, “Oh really” said Donkey “Glad I came then” and he sniffed
“If it happens again we’ll be better prepared” said Star
“Well I won’t be there” Cow said “You can get a Cow anywhere”
“This’ll do me, food and shelter, what more could a Cow want
And the new family will be needing milk, so thanks for the company, but I’m staying
Donkey couldn’t decide whether to be offended or not, he decided not
Cow needed company and people, people meant pain for him
“So Dog, that’s us then, just two for the road” and he came out to watch
The caravan was packing up and heading out, horses pranced, camels swayed
Swarthy men shouted and slapped
Turning their backs on the procession, Dog and Donkey took their leave of Cow
With Dog smiling and capering in front, Donkey clattered along behind
Off to wait for the next time a Donkey and a Dog were needed

An Argyll Nativity

2010-12-14T10:07:00.000-08:00

(As told by Tam Sinclair, shepherd to Mrs Cameron, Lochend Estate)

So I’m calling up the sheep
“Come bye, come bye”, to the dogs
Hector is dozing by the fire, he had first watch
I’ve sent the dogs out, left and right
To bring in the stragglers, at last all settle
I tug my plaid up round my ears and toss another peat on the fire
We’ve joined our flocks for this bit of scant grazing
It’s a dark, dark night
The clouds came up early, extinguishing the stars
I watch the dogs watching the sheep
It just needs one dafty to run
But it’s the dogs that start to twitch
They are uneasy, something has spooked them
Sitting up, ears cocked, eyes wide
Then I heard it too
The sky began to crackle and glow
Hector woke with a start
“Whit are ye at?”
“It is’nae me, look up”
“Och! It’s yon Shiny Man thing again”
I gaze in astonishment at Hector
Meanwhile the sky opens
A gigantic golden flower blooms
I look frantically at the sheep
The sheep are completely indifferent
They’ve seen it all before
Just me and the dogs then
Hector is making up the fire
“Who’s the Shiny Man then?”
“He’ll be along soon, first the smell, then the sounds
Then the Shiny Man”
And do you know, I could smell honey
Then something spicy overlaid with flowers
And just as I was enjoying this
Up starts the noise, well noise is unfair
It wasn’t quite music, not as I knew it
Not Archie John, you couldnae whistle this
It was familiar yet wondrous strange
And then the flower blew apart
Golden petals flew across the sky
Showering hill and glen with magical rain
“See” said Hector “The Shiny Man”
Hard as I tried I couldnae see clearly
“Dinnae bother” said Hector “He is’nae real,
He’s just here for the summoning”
I turned blaze blinded eyes to Hector
“Och, come on laddie, it’s every shepherds birthright
To go if able
Are you not a shepherd, abiding in the field?
And is the Shiny Man not saying don’t be scared?
We have to go and look at the baby”
Well I was, and He was, so we did.
Of Mistress Cameron’s sheep we cared not
“Who would want them anyway?”
Up the glen, down the brae, through the bealich
It was a sore journey on foot
With folk joining in on the way
Many I knew, and a grand blether there was
Much was made of a star, which many were following
Others were just along because
Jimmy the Post had his bag, lumpy with parcels
and Mac the knife from the butchers still had his apron on
And then knock me down with a spurtle
There was the star, all twinkly and bright
Beyond the standing stones, just hanging in the sky
We all stopped to watch
The Rev. Montgomery, McNiven the teacher
And him from the council, pushy as always
Gathered round Jimmy the post
Sorting and swapping parcels until satisfied
Hector pulled me on “Come away” he said “Time to get on
“We are to be first, being called”
And with his smiley dog capering before
We pushed through the crowd and set off along a rough track
“That’s Sorley McFadyen’s bothy” I said
“Wisht” said Hector “Not just now it is’nae”
The nearer we got the brighter it got
Light was flaring through gaps in the stone
Fingers of light reaching into the darkness
Drawing us in
I lingered in the doorway, Hector went in
There was a familiar woman, with a baby
In a puckle of straw in a ruckle of a box
Standing by was another familiar figure
I tugged at Hector as he came out
“Isn’t that Effie from over bye?
And surely that’s Wee Eck the joiner by the bridge”
“Not for tonight” said Hector
His face as peaceful and happy as I’ve ever seen
We were pushed aside by the postie
And the Minister and the Teacher and the Provost
Clutching their parcels, their eyes wide, went in
“Did you see there was a donkey? Who’s got a donkey?”
“There is always a donkey; I once saw a camel,
Odd looking beast that” said Hector
“And isn’t that Fergie Dunlop’s best cow?”
“Not tonight it is’nae” said Hector
With a big happy sigh he set off back
I ran after him “What happens now?”
“Not a lot, but one day, who knows”

©Alexander Hamilton December 2010

A Winter Quaternary

2010-12-09T07:01:00.000-08:00

Snowing

First the light changes
To a mustardy smudge
Then the sound of the day
Mutes, loses clarity
It all bodes ill

Then the sinister
Turns to magic
Trillions upon trillions
Of snowflakes
Everyone impossibly different
No fuss, just there

The first lazy motes drift
Innocent, no threat
The seer brown hill
Becomes the enchanted castle
It always believed it was

Trees break into improbable blossom
Trunks sparkle with crystal lichen
Spontaneous delight reaches out
Caught then gone
The most fleeting of glories
Replaced by
The most fleeting of glories

Snowfall

Somewhere miles above
An atmospheric event
Has come to term
Solitary flakes impatient to be gone
Whirl away
The more timid
Form clumps, and land
With that noise made by snow

A sound recognised
Slow worms tangle more intimately
Lizards tuck tighter into moss pockets
Toads with a disgusted huffle
Shuffle deeper

Birds are suddenly everywhere
Looking for food
Where are the berries?
Were they greedy too soon?
The snow will decide

There are mysteries in the snow
The tracks that start and then stop
As though an animal was placed so
And then after its walk, lifted up
By what device? By whose hand?

There is always a track before,
The unknown, neat, polite
Perfect against the white
Yours, shuffled and clumsy
A gross spoiling of perfection

Will you track the track?
Breath clouding the morning
Yes, until the uphill effort defeats
And the tracks are mysteriously gone
Until dog makes more.

Winterkill

White ethereal breath
Clouds white against white
Sunslant strikes scintillas of rainbow
Exciting, awesome, enchanting
But with beauty comes cruelty
Unthinking, unknowing, indifferent

Here a gaunt stiff Roe Doe
Stark on the hill
Fawn forlorn
Waiting for the scavengers
Shudders at the scream of Fox
Here an old woman
Made smaller by death
Leaning into a dead fireplace
Made smaller with bricks

She briefly remembered
The way her heart fluttered
The delight of discovery
Of her first love
A picnic, a dance, a beach
Until her heart stuttered
And stopped
When will she be found?

Her family politely picking
The bones of a life forgot
Leave tracks of avarice and greed
China for a daughter
Books for a son
But whose?
A well trodden path
So different from the fox
Tracking for need
But still carrying off bounty
Carrion for her cubs

Heavy Snow

Society demands
Always wanting more
Bigger, better, quicker
Well, guess what?
They got it this time!
Failed to predict accurately
Failed to cope with simple ice crystals
Such clever boys!
Was it the wrong sort of snow?

There are lessons to be learned
But then there always are
The dandruff of ignorance
A constant condition
Settles as thick as snow
The chill of financial restraint
What else to blame?
Will still be with us
Come the thaw

Committees count the cost
‘Is that all? And only so many dead?’
‘Trains? Has anyone thought of steam?’
‘We got off lightly that time’
‘Best order some more salt
But let’s just wait and see’.
‘We can always tax the first six inches
That should stop it!’

©Alexander Hamilton December 2010

Heavy Snow

2010-12-08T06:35:00.001-08:00

Society demands
Always wanting more
Bigger, better, quicker
Well, guess what?
They got it this time!
Failed to predict accurately
Failed to cope with simple ice crystals
There are lessons to be learned
But then there always are

The dandruff of ignorance
Settles as thick as snow
The chill of financial restraint
Colder than the weather
Will still be with us
Come the thaw

Committees count the cost
‘Is that all? And only so many dead?’
‘Trains? Has anyone thought of steam?’
‘We got off lightly that time’
‘Best order some more salt
But let’s just wait and see’.
‘We can always tax the first six inches
That should stop it!’

©Alexander Hamilton December 2010

Safari

2010-11-22T01:26:00.000-08:00

On the great green grassy African plain
Dotted hither and yon with thorn trees
An angle of Giraffes moves from tree to tree
Prehensile tongues stripping leaves.
Is it Acacia? I know we’ve been told
Every time the rains fail, or the rains fall
That nice man from the BBC, he knows.
In between the trees, an estate of Termite castles
Millions of tiny minds with but a single thought
Thank God they’re not bigger.
A slink of Lions watches a deer
Anticipation writ large.
A sneak of Jackals watches the Lions
Anticipation writ large.
A crossing of Zebras graze unconcerned.
A raucous of vultures fights over road kill
The sprint of Cheetahs left behind.
Safari buses queue to view the remains
A troop of Guides alert for danger
Peers anxiously into the brush haze.
20,000 Americans a year need home comforts
The widow from Arkansas wont squat.
The accountant from Salt Lake City
Has issues with privacy and his mother.
Canvas siding hides the performers,
From the bush curious beasts watch intently.
Small bright eyes slowly blink, small ears twitch
Massive nostrils quiver at alien smells,
Territory is being encroached upon.
The blunder of Rhinos shifts restlessly
Enough is enough, they charge
Ripping through the encampment
The Widow has no problem squatting
The accountant finds public performance no hindrance
The Rhinos, triumphant, depart, trailing tatters.

©Alexander Hamilton October 2010

The sculpture is entitled 'Urhino' and is currently exhibited in the 'Lyrical' exhibition at An Tobar, Tobermory, Mull

Late days

2010-11-16T06:53:00.000-08:00

The last of summer,
                    reluctant to go

Tips into the first
                    days of autumn

The decision taken
                    was delayed

An extension to
                    summers lease

To allow the last
                    of the Swallows

To gather their
                    broods and go

Finally urged
                    on their way

As violent storms
                    remind them

of warmer climes.
                    Victims of

Summers borrowed time
                    leaves, unsure for weeks

Arrive at a decision
                    and start to burnish

Butterflies, fragile, seek
                    safety to winterwait

Toads lurk, predatory, in moist evenings
                    A gathering in, a storing up

As insects, animals, prepare.
                    Indecision caused by warm days

Will kill the unwary
                    winter has no favourites

DAY CASE, Ward 29

2010-10-18T11:26:00.000-07:00

Came in early to be prepped, wish I had been late
Don’t in fact really want to be here at all
But needs must when the Crab bites
That’s me in the bed by the window
Bald, baggy eyed and bearded

Wearing dark blue pyjamas with pale blue trim
Hospitals for the use of and on occasion at the in- laws in case
Otherwise never worn, ironed to a nicety
Quite the slumber fashion icon
Not forgetting the waffle cotton robe, spread for comfort
Sitting up, staring out across Paisley from the sixth floor
Sun on roofscapes, planes lowering into Glasgow airport

Across from me is Harry, one time joiner from Kilmalcom
In for the same procedure, not operation, please note
Harry is deaf, well deafish, needs aids but won’t wear them
Speak loudly to Harry, and everyone does
Then there is a space, a dry dock for a bed

By the corridor window is Archie, loud, in pain
When can he have his meds? soon
His mirror is John, in for whatever
John and Archie talk across the ward
Incomprehensible to me, it involves ‘wee men’ and weans
Weegie vernacular, needs a tuned ear or a tenement life

Next is Hugh, he doesn’t speak at all, and then goes home
Collected by mother and father, in and out, lucky Hugh
Back to me again, I don’t speak; don’t have ‘wee men’ either

Commotion at door as in rolls the missing bed, a pile of patient
Lolling slack faced is Donald, grey, elderly, out of it
All beds present and correct, six beds, five patients
Drink is trolleyed in, big machine on wheels, cut backs, no lemon tea
Yes please, tea and a coffee for Archie and John
“TEA?” for Harry and “WHAT WILL DONALD HAVE?”
Donald is deaf, is given tea, milk no sugar, he must have heard
I have tea, no milk, three sugars, a poor substitute for food

Time for blood pressure, temperature, weight and height
I have everything I am supposed to have, including no allergies
Exit nurse pushing trolley, no squeak, why doesn’t it squeak?
Ah, that’s better, can’t see it but it has the mother of all squeaks
I relax as it passes, all is well, hospital equals wonky wheels
Do they rehearse them in Supermarkets, road test them in car-parks?
The invisible trolley disappears down the corridor, will it be back?
Probably, just as the idea of sleep threatens to be a reality

Donald is uncoordinated, anaesthetic confusion, tries to make a break for it
My alarm summons nurse, Harry and John dozing, Archie moaning,
I have become the ward safety officer by default
Donald soothed and settled, new cup of tea to join un-drunk cup

The time is seven thirty on a Thursday evening
I watched as the bruise of night spread remorselessly across the sky
Now looking out is the same as looking in, except that you see yourself
Harry wakens, refreshed, starts in on his life’s journey, Oh my!
Harry can’t hear my replies, I settle on a smile and nod repertoire
So he was born there, lived here, drove one of those, worked thus,

The nurse trundles in to take his blood pressure
Married Janet, had boy, named him Robert, worked in the shipyards
Archie has tried to turn over, we all discover it hurts
Fitted out ships made by Lithgows, lived in a house built by Lithgows
Nurse trundles in to wake up Donald to take his blood pressure
“HOW ARE YOU, CAN I HAVE YOUR ARM?”

John’s wife comes to collect him, registrar happy for him to go
Swaggers down the ward in football top, don’t ask and shell suit bottom
Much inarticulate farewelling with Archie, now abandoned
Made a new front door for Lithgow home in Kilmalcom
Don’t know why he is involved with Lithgow cars, but a happy memory,
Rode a motorbike, went to rallies, bought a sidecar to put Robert in

Silently rolling to a halt, lit and heated, the dinner trundle, for one night only
There is a choice of Curried Beef, Sweetcorn Hash, curry is the dish of choice
“WHAT WILL DONALD HAVE?” Mutter, mutter, “DO YOU WANT CHIPS?”
“CAKE AND CUSTARD?” Mutter, mutter, all get left on the bed table
Harry says it’s the best meal he has ever had in hospital, and this is his fourth day!
Archie has curry, cake and custard, it might be something else but sounds like cake
Harry is now making fitted kitchens and custom joinery

Archie is slipper slapping his way up and down the ward
Cup of tea, milk two sugars, thank you, can I have my meds, soon
“WOULD YOU LIKE A CUP OF TEA? MILK NO SUGAR?” Someone remembers
I have tea, no milk, three sugars, still a poor substitute for food
Gets stopped mid ward to have his blood pressure taken; “Cup of tea?” soon
It involves this quality wood, that standard of fittings, all sorts of widow frames
Sash windows, French doors, Side opening casements, nothing in plastic
Anyone with a blowlamp can help themselves to your contents
I have my blood pressure taken, still no allergies

Donald has soiled himself; I summon nurse, much commotion
“DON”T WORRY DONALD THESE THINGS HAPPEN,”
“CAN YOU ROLL OVER, NOW HITCH UP THE BED”
Harry is now working on Jura for Lithgow, I think it’s a roof, I don’t care
I get up to ‘Stretch my back’, visit corridor, look at pictures
Harry is going strong; we are back in the shipyard, not sure what he is doing
Archie has slipper slapped his way up the corridor, I can hear his muffled moans
Mutter, groan, mutter “Can I have my meds please”, soon

I haven’t slept since five am Thursday morning, time now, eleven at night
Harry is into gardening, vegetables are his particular delight, he could eat nothing but
Harry has gone to the toilet, I have started my second book, Donald cries out
Nothing happens, no nurse, Donald wrestles with his bedclothes, I press the alarm
Harry is back, as is Archie, flopped on his bed, beached in velour

Nurse manhandles Donald out of bed into Zimmer, slow slow shuffle slow
Harry cheerfully cheers “Doing great Pops” Harry is eighty one!
Donald is shuffling back to “STEADY NOW DONALD, THAT’S THE TICKET”
Midnight, Harry is asleep, Archie is asleep, Donald is glassy eyed and quiet
Nurse trundles in to take Donald’ blood pressure, “CAN I HAVE YOUR ARM?”

Anglepoise lamp on low and pulled down as reading light, sleep not an option
Archie turns over, it hurts, and slipper slaps his way up and down the ward
Donald is confused, a daughter has visited, poor woman, she will get to take Donald
What luck for Donald, what trials for daughter, not the same as a nurse, poor him
God knows what time it is, Donald has sat hard on my bed, I press the alarm
Donald returned to bed, safety sides erected, Donald caged, not happy. I wait

Morning breaks, drear and windy, I watch sore eyed as the tree I can see suffers
In comes manically cheerful Emma, to make beds, change sheets, puff pillows
I say mine are fine, big grin, now they will be better, I walk the ward.
Ye Gods! It’s time for tea again, and blood pressure, and temperature
I have tea, no milk, three sugars, this is breakfast
Still no allergies, I wonder how disappointing I am as a patient
Consultant says Archie can go home, after tea that is, three down

Donald is dressed loudly, “WHAT A NICE SHIRT,” manically cheerful Emma
Slumps in armchair waiting, poor bugger will be doing a lot of that
Harry now dressed, waiting for ambulance to take him home
Donald now in wheelchair, daughter grimly brave, pushes on out
Harry begins one sided discussion on the subject of the ambulance service
Grey sky starts to break up, blue and bright take over
Archie rings for wife, and then he’s gone, as has pain

In trolleys nurse to take my blood pressure, wow, it’s up, NOT BLOODY SURPRISED!
Best of three? I say, I say machine at fault, or the effect she has on me
Just one of those things, only its one of these things, attached to me!
At last the uniform appears, Harry is placed “FOR SAFETY” in a wheelchair
Perhaps we will meet again”, “NOT IN HERE I HOPE! GOODBYE, STAY WELL”

And then there was one.

I wish I could be more positive about my house

2010-09-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

No bats in the belfry

Nothink up the sleeves

No spanner in the works

Not a blink under the sink

No geezer in the freezer

Nada in the larder

Nuffink narky on the parky

No tins in the bins

No paper in the toilet – bummer

No frog in the bog

No toad in the hole

No bun in the oven

Nuffink itchin in the kitchin

No hedz under the bedz

Zilch under the quiltz

No poofs in the parlour

No larfs in the barf

No brainz in the drainz

No torch in the porch

No clothes in the closet

No F in cod

Niente in the tente

No moose loose

Nuffink in the woodshed

No Lords on bawds

No rain on the plane

No viper in the bosom

But maybe there’s a snake in the grass.

©Alexander Hamilton September 2010

Making preserves

2010-09-20T04:36:00.000-07:00

In the somnolent kitchen

Where just the purr of the cats
In a mingled pile on the settle
Barely disturbs the idle afternoon
Polly sits, fondling the tangle, watching.
The purple stained jellybag
Hangs heavy, tumid, above the bowl
Spending the last of the blackcurrants’ juice
Each glop of the drip as it drops
Breaks the silence anew
The ripple in the viscous pool
Dies before reaching the sides
A twist to the bag oozes juice
In sweated beads on the muslin
They slowly slide, down to the nipple drip
On the underside of the engorged fruit breast
Then bustle of preparation, anticipation
Poured into the pan the berries’ life blood
Seethes and settles as the heat starts to rise
A white cascade of sugar is massacred
Turning a deep blood red on contact
The juice boils and roils, thickens
Slowly transmuting into a jelly
Hot jars, oven fresh, await the translated juice
Filled with deep dark currant essence
Their plastic tops snap as they cool
The busy moment is past
Summer is stored away till winter

Bah Humbug.

2010-09-15T07:42:00.000-07:00

Bah Humbug, Bah Lamb
Bah Harma, Bah Rain
Bah Sket, Bah Kentine
Bah Nackle, Bah Gain

Bah Relief, Bah Tholomew
Bah Me, Bah Loon
Bah Ber, Bah Barrion
Bah Sickle, Bah Soon

Bah Stard, Bah Ter
Bah Narna, Bah Net
Bah Lee, Bah Ometer
Oh Bah Gerrit

Scene, whilst walking the dog.

2010-09-09T07:53:00.000-07:00

A gathering of Swallows,

Clothespegged along the telephone line,

Dares each other to loop the loop.

Shouting and jeering as the foolhardy

Demonstrate improbable aerial feats.

Whooping and swooping up and out

Cheered on, then joined by the lingerers.

Their demanding fledgling young

Sit on the ridge tiles, gaping.

The harsh racheting cry of the bandit Jay

Echoes through the green light

A flash of blue, a hint of stripe,

White rump, black tail and gone.

Whilst above, a high keening Buzzard

Lofts dreamily on motionless wings.

Gimlet eyes, hunger sharp.

A Frog, shiny, golden brown

Sits blinking stupidly into the sun

Halfway across the track.

Unaware of wingborn, windborn danger

Cannot sense the stalking Heron

Mindless of the Hooded Crow

What was it thinking? Going where?

Gently toed back into moist shadow

Away from hunting eyes

Did it even know it was at risk?

Or was it escaping something

Slithering in the damp?

Have I sent it back to die?

I’ll look again tomorrow.

It’ll be gone, and I’ll wonder.

©Alexander Hamilton September 2010

Dog & I

2010-09-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

Beside the lochan, Dog and I

Stopped to watch a Dragonfly

Hither it flitted, yon it flat

As down beside me Dog he sat

And watched with me, pursuit of gnat.

Watching its erratic flight

Dog jumped up to take a bite

Caught the dragonfly mid flit

Wondered what and why he bit

As dragonflies, they taste like s--t

©Alexander Hamilton September 2010

The Editor, The Daily Telegraph

2010-08-30T07:43:00.000-07:00

Somerset Porpentine,

Leac na Ban, Tayvallich, Lochgilphead. Argyll PA31 8PF

01546 870 310

The Editor,
The Daily Telegraph
111 Buckingham Palace Rd.
London
SW1W ODT

Dear Sir,

I have been following the BBC and “The Stig” story with great amusement, as my father Willoughby Porpentine was the original “Stig”. He raced regularly at Brooklands and used a number of pseudonyms, what he called his ‘motornyms’, depending on who he was racing for. The pit crews used to call him The Metronome, because of the regularity of his pit stops, usually for “a bracer”.

I once challenged him to reveal himself as “The Stig” and his reply was that the British public needed mystery in their lives as much as he needed gin in his tonic.

My Aunt, ‘Mrs Trellis’ with whom any listener to “I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue” will be familiar, used to joke about ‘outing’ him on air.

Lucy, my father’s sister had married Barnaby Trellis, and for a while they lived at Tunbridge Wells, where Barnaby was for many years “Indignant”, “Outraged” and “Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells” before moving to Wales to take up a post as Borough Surveyor.

Lucy had met Humphrey Littleton shortly after returning from America, where she had enjoyed the nightlife in ‘speakeasies’. She met him in what she liked to call a ‘sleazyeasy’ and on occasion was persuaded to sing with the band. She started to write to the programme just to tease Humph. Sadly she died four years ago, and since then my sister Corryander has been writing the letters.

My family has derived great satisfaction from being the unsung providers of such harmless pleasures and it is a great pity that temporary financial gain should now jeopardise the “The Stig Mystery”.

Yours faithfully,

Somerset Porpentine

'small white' revisited

2010-06-29T03:45:00.000-07:00

On a track through the forest
On a sun dappled day
Fluttering butterflies
Make bright holes in the light
Their fine pencil drawn wings
Delicate. Elegant. Vestal white
No dots, no spots, no eyes
Just white is enough
They dance for their lives
So that others might follow
Their brief ephemeral beauty
Flickering gently out
A moment, a flash
Against the dark spruce
Until
On a sun dappled day
Up a track through the forest
Dancing white butterflies
Make bright holes in the light

small, white.

2010-06-21T11:07:00.000-07:00

Up a track through the forest
On a sun dappled day
Fluttering, flittering butterflies
Make bright holes in the light
Their fine pencil drawn wings
Elegant, delicate, vestal white
No dots, no spots, no eyes
Because just white is enough
Dancing a dance of enticement
Their dance of life, a dance of death
Short lived ephemeral beauties
Flickering gently out against the dark spruce

Until

On a sun dappled day
Up a track through the forest
Dancing white butterflies
Make bright holes in the light

ROBERTSON IS.

2010-05-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Robertson is a farm cat

A barn cat

A mouses run for cover cat

Robertson is a chancer

a prancer

The leader of the dancer

Robertson is a stubby cat

a grubby cat

A roller in the dusty cat

Robertson is a prowler

a howler

An on the roof miowler

Robertson is a crazy cat

a lazy cat

A snuggle on a cushion cat

Robertson is a bouncer

a flouncer

An on the mouses pouncer

Robertson is a needy cat

a greedy cat

A muncher of furry crunchies cat

Robertson is a lumper

a plumper

A heavy footed stumper

Robertson just is!

A Few Things

2010-05-09T11:04:00.000-07:00

Marginalia in the Diaries of Sir Fitzroy Porpentine,
an inquisitive man, an enquiring mind

A few things, which when
thrown at a brick wall fail to
stick as a consequence of a
lack of adhesive properties,
listed in order of size.

1. Child. ----- Able Sooperami,
son of the News Agent, despite
the offer of immediate medical
attention, was extremely reluctant
to be thrown at the wall and
ran away. The unfortunate child
was struck by a steam car as
he made his escape. It was
noted that he failed to adhere
to the car, and from this
we extrapolated that should
we have had the opportunity
to throw him at the wall,
he would have failed to stick
to that surface as well.
It should be noted that the
child’s ethnicity was not a factor,
he was selected purely on the
basis that he was a confounded
nuisance in the area.
Had Chaz the Banger been
available we would have
attempted the experiment
with him, possibly with
more succssess as he has
a very tacky look
about him.
There is some doubt about
the viability of this experiment,
as a suitable device for launching
the child so as to achieve
maximum surface impact,
has yet to be perfected.

2. Dog. ----- Two dogs were used next,
long haired and short haired.
It was decided to use small breeds
as they were easier to hold and throw.
Whilst no conscious decision
was taken as to breed,
it transpires that one was a
Yorkshire Terrier,
if the “Has anyone seen this dog” posters
were to be believed. Had we done so
we were to contact the
Hon. Belinda Bournemouth.
We might yet.
We also heard of enquiries
in the area concerning a certain
missing Jack Russell,
though this may have been a child.
Neither dog was successful
at adhering to the wall.

3. Cats. ----- As with the dogs
a long haired and a short haired
variety was used.
No account was taken of pedigree.
Unlike the dogs,
the cats seemed to sense
that something was amiss,
as prior to release at the
apogee of an overarm throw
they would dig their claws in,
thus making it impossible
to achieve a clean launch.
However, using an
underarm technique it was possible
to throw them at the wall.
Of all the subjects they
are the only ones to turn around
in mid air and hit the wall feet first.
Whilst there was some adhesion
as their claws achieved
a temporary hold on the surface,
it was felt that this was a
mechanical system and of
too short a duration to be considered.

4. Guinea Pigs. ----- The smallest
mammalian species tried,
considered to be an ideal subject
due to size and weight being
more suitable for holding,
also not given to struggling
too much. By far the
most vocal until impact.
It was decided not to try
anything smaller i.e. Hamster,
as it was felt that there would
be diminishing returns as
the weight/impact ratio declined.
Whilst launch, flight path
and number of strikes
in the target zone far exceeded
any other subject,
the Guinea Pigs were no
more successful at achieving adhesion.

5. Dinner Plates. ----- It was decided
to try inanimate objects to provide
a control group. Three makes
of plate were used,
Limoge, Denby, and Staffordshire Pot.
It was felt that these covered
a reasonable spectrum of
cost and status. The Limoge plate
was thrown at a distance of two metres,
the Denby plate was thrown
from a distance of four metres,
and the Staffordshire Pot plate was
thrown from a distance of six metres.
It was observed that it was
harder to ensure that the plate
would strike the wall flat
on the further away from
the wall the launch site was.
All three makes of plate
were smashed to smithereens,
despite societal expectations
that the Staffordshire Pot plate
being tougher and more
working class
would remain entire.
For the purpose of this experiment,
the strike marks on the wall
were not considered a
evidence of adhesion.

The “Fear Mor” II

2010-04-29T01:11:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time,

No, that’s wrong,

Once before time,

Yes, that’s better,

Once before time, mad, riotous and extra ordinary events were taking place.

When the surface of the earth was being pummelled and pushed,

Exploded and extruded, by forces beyond imagining,

Came a time when the last flare, the last ember, cooled.

The newly foundried and folded earth,

With all its ups and downs,

And ins and outs,

Lay under a freshly minted sky,

Waiting

Waiting for who knows what.

As it waited, the sun rose and scorched the rocks,

Again, and again, and again,

Boiling moisture out of the rocks.

The clear sky became cloudy and shrouded the suns fierce power,

When the sun went down

The earth cooled and rain fell upon the earth.

Rain continued to fall

All the moisture taken up by the sun was returned

The moon pulled,

And the waters rushed from one side to the other,

The earth heaved and bucked,

Stressed by irresistible forces

The mantle of the earth ruptured,

Fire and molten rock vomited forth,

Exploding through boiling seas,

Gouting and spumming onto tortured shores.

Came a time when even these terrible forces were stilled

The earth rested and was quiet.

Into this quiet, intruded an almost noise,

The merest crisp whisper of sound,

A large rock detached itself,

A slight chink as the elongated boulder eased away,

A thrill of falling dust

A clink of debris and the monolith was free.

The sun rose the sun set,

The moon waxed the moon waned,

Turn and turn about, each dependant upon the other,

Chasing through the firmament.

For numberless years the stone lay,

Then for numberless more,

Deep inside an awareness sparked and fizzed,

Energised by solar flares.

At a time when forces and fluxes were right,

The stone began to move.

It had spent eons absorbing information

Being carried in the earths magnetic fields,

Knew that the strongest pull was to the west,

It bent its considerable will to head in that direction.

It would enjoy the journey,

There was no rush.

The sun scorched, the rain drenched and the wind scoured,

The stone moved.

The ice pressed and pushed, scoring and scarring,

The stone moved.

Slimy things slithered, crawly things crawled, claws scratched,

Blood splashed and spattered,

The stone moved.

Reptiles roared, beasts howled,

The stone moved.

Man found the stone and claimed it for its own,

The stone moved.

More men arrived and coveted the stone,

Blood splashed and spattered,

The stone moved

Human evolution was a meaningless event.

Came a time when the stone stopped moving,

Sloughed off the ages of man,

Repelled the advances of nature,

Knew that it had reached its destination,

It would wait here for its transfiguration.

When the forces and fluxes were right it would become

An awesome monolith

In control and command of a subtle power

That man would want to exploit.

It had enjoyed the journey,

There was no rush,

It was content to lie where it was,

And wait,

And STAND

When the time was right,

And no one was looking.

Fear (fair) Mor = Big Man

GOAT WILLOW

2010-04-24T04:34:00.000-07:00

The dull grey trunks of Goat Willow
Clump sullenly beside the track
At this time, just another tree
And later just more green
But in between the winter stark
And verdant summer leaf
The Great Sallow has a brief glory
Just now, with the sun hot in the sky
I look up from the joy of a Primrose
Eye caught by a gleam of white
The drab buds on the drab twigs on the drab tree
Are shrinking in the suns warmth
The first, barely a split, reveals a hint of silver
And as the sheaths open, the catkins silky shine
Soon the whole tree will be studded and starred
An earth bound constellation, pale satin in the gloaming.

CALICO.

2010-04-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

I thought I saw my dog today
As I went through the gate to the hill
Just a glimpse, a slide of grey
Her name started to my lips
But I knew it couldn’t be

I thought I saw my dog today
As I carried hay to the beasts
She followed, a hint of shadow
I started to call her
But I knew I was deceived

I thought I saw my dog today
As I called up the sheep
I turned to catch the quick bright eye
I knew the lope, the curve
But I knew I was mistaken

I thought I saw my dog today
As I turned from closing the gate
Slipping to the side of my eye
That questing nose, the cock of ear
But I knew I must be wrong

I thought I saw my dog today
As I barrowed logs through the yard
A grey slink behind the tractor
I wondered why she was hiding
My dog of much delight
But I knew it was a conceit
For I knew fine where she lay

© Alexander Hamilton 2010

JOURNEY

2010-02-02T15:00:00.000-08:00

I forget the trip
But remember the train
I forget the station
But remember the stopping
Remember the squeal of a wheel
The doors slam banging
The sudden chill wind
I remember the hiss and wheeze
The clank and lunge of couplings
The carriages flickering past
The empty cold smell
Of the cold empty platform
Is it always cold on stations?
I remember the steps, the tunnel
The bump of the bag on my leg
The drip, the splash, the echo
I forget who “rules OK”
I remember the steps, rising to light
I saw you by the gate
I remember your hair
Your eyes, your smile
I remember our kiss
That’s all I need to remember.

SELKIE

2010-01-30T13:47:00.000-08:00

Archie John Monroe lies restless in his bed
A hard bed, a narrow bed, with little comfort
Like Archie John, it is worn, thin and faded
Deep set eyes roam their sockets, under grizzled frown
As in his dreams he steers his boat out past the breakwater
Out into turbulent seas
No last look back, no lingering doubt
No fireside to regret, no breast to leave
Just an unknown hunger driving him on
His sleeping jaw clenches
His aching hands grip the worn sheet
As he steers and stares into the enveloping dark
No mate, no crew, no pots to lift
Just him and his trailing net
No fangled devices, no beeping and flashing
Just him and his instinct for fish
He feels the wind turn, the dark start to lift
He moans in his sleep and shakes his head
Sparse silver hair tangly and matting
He knows his dream, knows what follows
He sees himself standing against the half light
Hears the ratchet catch on the gear
Watches as he rushes to release the net
Remembers the fear, feels the outrage
What’s in the net? What has he caught?
Is it a bloody seal? bloody, bloody seals
His sleeping mind knows, he grumps in his sleep
Waits for what comes next
He heaves at the heavy, flippered and finned
Drags the net in turning it over
Two round eyes blink open; stare up at him, blue
Oh so blue, like no blue ever before seen
So blue you can only feel it, words have failed
The wind has died; a jag of fire light hits the horizon
Unzipping the night, letting in tomorrow
He lies still, quiet in his bed now
As the sense of awe and wonder seep back into his mind
The wide thin lipped mouth allows out a ssoft enquiring ssound
Archie John, stunned and stumped just stands
The mouth opens and the thrilling cadenced warble
Drops him to his knees
The head turns, the eyes stare into him
Into parts and recesses he didn’t know were empty
He tears at the net, sobbing in his haste
His hands stinging and bloody release her
Tenderly he smoothes and sooths the net burns
Gently his fingers trail through the not quite hair
Silvered slate arms reach round his neck and pull him down
On his bed, Archie John resists, whimpers, he remembers
She is cold through and through, with but a faint heat
He senses where the vestigial woman lies
A webbed hand caresses his face
Cold salty breath flows into his mouth
He feels his clothes fall away
He cries out and shudders as she joins to him
Even now, asleep in his bed, his body remembers
Remembers that volcanic moment
When he twisted and writhed in ecstatic pain
As his very being was sucked out of his loins
With an anguished cry he wakes
Lies trembling with violation and memory
Meagre coverlet clutched to his chest
He doesn’t need to dream to remember
The slick chill that replaced the fire of his anger
To remember the way she glowed with his stolen heat
He can’t forget that coupling, freakish and perverse
He never stopped looking, trailing and trailing his net
Until his boat, as tired as he was, couldn’t get off the beach
Ignoring the fire of pain in his joints
He stumps to the window, and stares out at another dawn
His bleak gaze is drawn to where gulls
Are diving and calling at something in the surf
Slipping on his sailcloth coat
He pads bare foot out onto the wet giving sand
The something in the surf rolls and seems to beckon
Despite the gulls he hears a ssoft ssibilant ssound
He begins to run, the years fall away, he is vigorous, he is young
Plunging through the breakers he gathers her into his arms
As she enfolds him in hers, drawing him away from the shore
She blinks her blue blue eyes and he is lost
Fastening her mouth to his, he tastes the salty tang of remembered longing
Clasped in each others arms they sink through the cool deepening dim

TO SOPHIE, WITH LOVE

2010-01-01T14:11:00.000-08:00

See the way the grass moves

See the buttercups sway

Sophie is walking in the wind

See the way the trees bend

See the leaves dashed and torn

Sophie is running in the wind

See how nearly full the moon is

See just a piece gone

Sophie is hunting in the stars

See the raindrops dashing

Hear the thunder roll

Sophie is barking in the storm

Hear the burn gurgle

Hear it chuckle over rocks

Sophie is laughing in the water

Feel the frost deepen

Watch the snowfall settle

Sophie is drifting in the flakes

Feel the tender sun of spring

Watch the blossom open

Sophie is in the falling petals

Sophie is in another place now

Running on another hill

Joying with the pack

John Feeney, Orphan

2009-12-30T09:14:00.000-08:00

(On hearing a report on the Catholic Church in Ireland)

John Feeney, twelve years old, orphan
Taken in by the sisters
The Blessed Bernadette Orphanage
Smells of Dettol, piss and cabbage
John Feeney, small for his age
Black hair and white skin of his kind
Still lonely, still longing
His mothers smile is harder to conjure
And he cries at night as he tries
His father is just a hard noise
And a stink of beer and fags
Father O’Malley drove the dusty miles
Brought him to this place
John Feeney, white and tense
Scrunched down in his seat, can’t hide
Echoing slam, cold corridor, colder water
Hair cropped, carbolic sting
Be a good boy, do as you are told
Don’t forget that God loves you
Smiley Sister Mary Joseph pats the hard bed
Leaning on her stick she limps away
John Feeney sits huddled and shivering
And so very alone
Come Sunday, he is still cold
Still alone, still afraid
But he likes the candles and incense
Familiar rituals, familiar responses
Tentatively he starts to belong
Watches the priest
Doesn’t like the priest
Bloodshot eyes, full wet lips
High nasal voice
Really doesn’t like the priest
Sadly for John Feeney
Father Mulligan likes John Feeney
Watches him during mass
Sister Mary Joseph, who is the new boy
He will make a fine server
Come Sunday, dressed in white
John Feeney lights the candles
Swings the censor
From the vestry Father Mulligan
Sipping communion wine
Watches and wants
Father Mulligan, servant of God
Shepherd of his flock
And holder of John Feeney’s cock
Touchy feely Spiritus Sancti
Terrified John Feeney, wonders how to tell
After class to Sister Mary Joseph
Outraged cry, bulging eye
Spittle flecked lips, droplets fly
Would you listen to the boy
And the stick cracks down, thwack
The fathers a saint
Would you listen to the lies
And the stick cracks down, thwack
The fathers a saint
Would you listen to the filth
And the stick cracks down, thwack
The fathers a saint
Not so smiley Sister Mary Joseph
Clutches at her withered breast
Sinks with panting gasps to the floor
Dear God save me, wheezy whisper
John Feeney, disfigured by red wheals
Watches, cold eyed, and does nothing
After a while he picks up the stick
And goes to look for the priest
Touchy feely Spiritus Sancti
Flings wide the confessional door
With outraged cry brings down the stick
And again, and again, and again
Father Mulligan, bloodshot eyes rolled up and glazed
Topples out, and bleeds gently on the sacristy floor
Did you like that, how does that feel
Whispers John Feeney
Walking down the church to the open door
Where the sun is shining and the sky is blue.

SMILES

2009-12-22T02:21:00.000-08:00

Bursting through the cloud
The night sky blazes
The sheep just stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

Dazzling shafts blind shepherds
Who huddle and cower in fear
The sheep just stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

Mumbling and stumbling down their hill
The shepherds hasten towards the quickening dawn
Bidden not to stand and stand
                     And stare and stare

The Leaders from the East
Gaze at the light on the dark horizon
In awe of the moment, and stand and stand
                     And stare and stare

Sheltering in the lee of a dune
Their camels shift and groan
Glad for a chance to stand and stand
                     And stare and stare

The people of the towns gather and jostle
In crowds at the cross roads
To gossip and point and stand and stand
                     And stare and stare

The weary camel train plods and sighs
Turbaned, fierce eyed, the riders glare
At the unknowing, come to stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

The rumour of a mysterious event
Travel stained dark strangers excite
Folk become too restless to stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

The road fills with questing travellers
They have left their work and homes
No longer content to stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

All are watching the exotic strangers
In whose wake they hurry
And gape at the instruments, when they stand and stand
                      Through which they stare and stare

Of an evening a shout goes up, an arm points
Low in the darkening sky, a star flares
The crowd halts and huddles and stands and stands
                     And stares and stares

The pace picks up, bridles jingle, horses snort
Tired feet are lighter, eyes are brighter
No one now has time to stand and stand
                       And stare and stare

At last they come to a place, shabby and low
Where the light coming down seems to meet a light going up
Stilled by the radiance, they all stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

Through the glow and hush of night
The cry of a child, a mother’s murmur
The women all smile, the men just stand and stand
                      And stare and stare

Excited children and sheep mill about
Through the open door, a stream of the curious
Who on sight of the child just stand and stand
                     And stare and stare

Over the stall the cattle shift and fret
All this fuss and disturbance, and for what
Leave us be to stand and stand
                    And stare and stare

In the soft low light, a mother croons
And bends to tend her child, wipes the mouth
Soothes the cheek, and the baby smiles and smiles and smiles.

Blackthorn in Winter

2009-12-22T02:16:00.000-08:00

The black, prickly thorns

Of the prickly Blackthorn

Make angular, skeletal spikes

Yearning out across the track

Snagging and jagging the unwary

Here a few withered sloes

Linger stubbornly on leafless twigs

There a faded thread streams in the wind

Torn from a careless picker

By the malevolent spirit trapped on a thorn

Jealous of denied freedom

Wispy green lichen clings tenaciously

A poor substitute for the summer glory

When small dark leaves hid its savage nature

The tree winter waits

For the bride white spring

Fern

2009-12-22T02:14:00.001-08:00

I was fond of the frond

Watching it ease and unfurl

Spring and uncurl

The whole fern leapt

Seemingly overnight

Into a giant shuttlecock

Sharp green smelling of spring

I watched the colour deepen

A mature summer green

It swayed with the weather

Where neighbour plants failed

I watched the colour deepen

Into autumn tinted brown

And one by one the fronds lay down

As I walked the dogs

One frond still stood

Defiant against the inevitable

Until one day as I watched

It too lay down

The Consequences of Rain

2009-11-17T01:33:00.000-08:00

The leaden loch lies swollen and sullen

Under a lowering sky

Wooed and soothed by summer smirrs

And laughing dashing showers

Has been violated, quickened

By a harsh, driving insistent rain

And is now come to term

Coille Bharr’s* waters break, over the western bank

The idle runoff burn

So used to a tickle

A trickle of water

Is now lost to the force

As the loch voids its heaving belly

The violent spewing waters riot and ruck

Between sodden earth and rock

Lurching and heaving at a set back

Then racing and roaring free

Offended by an intruding root

The water nips and tears at the bank

Saturated soil slumps and is lost

The confident tree, teeters, topples

The burn giggles and gurgles through its stricken branches

Pushing and shoving shattered twigs and leaves

Into curling swirling endlessly circling patterns

The slab stone ford

Under which the burn so recently smoothed

Is lost in the wild welter and dash

The hurry and crash

As panicked rills and trills are drowned

By the heedless reckless rush

Peat stained froth, slurps and sucks

In back eddies by rocks and trunks

The track rises, the burn deepens

The water settles and seethes

A deeper hugger mugger of brown sound

Replaces the splash and rip of that first mad dash

But the urgency will not be denied

The burn surges and leaps as the bed rises
Passing from gravel to rock

The wild hysterical chuckle

Growing in volume at each rock fall

Until with lunatic “look no hands” bravado

The burn launches itself off the escarpment

To fly, to fall, crashing and frothing

Sounding and pounding onto the jumbled rock below

Where with the merest hint of hesitation

It rushes on, driven by relentless ambition

Not a loch, don’t want to be a loch!

Spouting and pouting

No longer a loch, it was growing up

No more gentling by rushy banks

Quieted by trailing willows

It was heading for the sea

To the heady idea, borne on the wind

This is what it was all about

To be subsumed into a mighty force

To take its turn to roar, rush and rend a lonely fishing boat

As the stricken boat slipslides from view

The last of the waters memory follows

It’s new found energy

Greedily dragging the desperate crew down to its insatiable depths

Savouring the novelty of salt

It checks, is there more to consume?

The foam flecked heaving surface is bare

There is nothing to threaten

No need to swirl and swell

With a new sense of purpose

It’s off to sea what there is to sea

* Coy ya var

BIRD

2009-11-14T02:47:00.000-08:00

I walked down the track

And saw the bird

the eye

the beak

the worm

I walked down the track

And saw the black bird

the bright eye

the yellow beak

the worm

I walked down the track

And saw the glossy black bird

the knowing bright eye

the sharp yellow beak

the dead worm

Well done bird, I said

Buzzard

2009-11-09T13:46:00.000-08:00

I feared for the bird wrenched up and away

By a gusting vagary of wind

Blown and helpless against such force

Of a sudden it checked and stalled

Entirely its own master

I saw that it played with the wind

Not as I thought, victim. but victor

It swept and soared

Fell, tumbling down the sky

To swoop up again

There was joyousness in the bird, with the bird

An extravagance of being

That transcended its feathery soul

An elegance of glide, a swagger of wing

A flirt of the tail and away

Leaving me to the malevolent keening

Of a thin vindictive wind

Personal Boundaries

2009-10-14T12:19:00.001-07:00

I was young, when I first planted my hedge

It was thin and weedy, but it kept most folk out

Sometimes it got trampled, and so did I

My best friend kept a way open

A trodden path to my heart

And we played and ventured out

But I wouldn’t stray far from my refuge

One day I realised that the path had closed

And so did my heart and my hedge

As I grew older, I planted extra trees

And hid behind their thickening trunks

I would peer out from my thicket

Watching the easy folk, the pleasing people

I should do that; I would do that, if I could

They don’t like bits of twig and leaves in wine bars

Restaurants only have room for tropical plants

There is no space for rustic, prickly, tangled me

Then through the brier, a glint, a gleam

Sun off metal, a scintilla of fear

My hedge was being looked at, considered, inspected

I felt a pushing, at a distant boundary

There is no way through there, I gloated

And pushed back, pulling into place a thorn

But someone was hacking a way through

And I realised I couldn’t stop her, but did I care?

Perhaps it was time for a new best friend

She arrived at my side, secateurs held just so, and tight

Beside me, she gazed out at my hedge

At the damage she had wrought and she laughed

And she went away, leaving me to clear up

I was just lashing a sapling into place

When back, busting through my hedge, she came

This time armed with saw and slasher and axe

My hedge didn’t stand a chance

It is now layed and layered, woven and tucked

There are ordered ways through, gates to myself

She stands at my side and inspects my hedge

I do as I am told, and weave in the withies

And hope she doesn’t discover the ditch

Song of the Tree

2009-08-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

Soaring with cathedral grace

The trunk rises and rises

Branch after branch

Bough upon bough

An ascension of tree

Primus Arbor Primal Tree

Tree before tree

Alone in the immensity of silence The Tree sang

It sang of life and love

It sang of the Earth above

It sang of the Earth below

It sang of its seed in that darkness

It sang to the Skies it sang to the Seas

It sang to the Mountains above the seas

And the Mountains sang back

Rejoicing with the Tree

This song of joy and the joy of the song

Echoed and re-echoed and sprang and splintered

Boomed and bounced

The song of the Tree was the Splendour of the World

All the trees of its making

Joined the song

They sang their song into the Wind

The Wind has taken their song

They are dumb

The Wind shrieks and roars

Tears at the trees, demanding

Give me another song

It wheedles and moans

Simpers and whimpers

Sing me another song

Just a little one

Just a chorus

For I have sung your song in all the places

In the spaces of the places

And it is wearing thin

I have sung your song to tatters

The Tree at the centre of the World

Answered the Wind saying

I had but the one song

The song of making the song of the beginning of things

You have taken my song and made it your own

You have sung it out of tune and out of time

I have no more song

A seed spiralled to the ground

A leaf fell slip sliding through the air

And settled upon the seed

Darkness came upon the seed

The Seed began to hum, alone in that darkness

Seeking the next song

Feeling for the rhyme

Everyman crouches

Straining to hear, desperate

Is it a growing song?

A continuing of things?

© Alexander Hamilton 2009

Rough Winds

2009-07-29T03:51:00.000-07:00

“Blow winds and crack your cheeks,” “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,” “The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow.” All these spring to mind when contemplating the storm damage at Crarae but what they also do is put me in mind of Shakespeare’s epic journey round the highlands. It is Shakespeare’s diary that Johnson and Boswell used as a rudimentary guide for their own much vaunted trip. Little is known of Shakespeare’s travels, but as part of a group of travelling players he visited many great houses on summer play tours. He used his experiences in many of his plays and academics take great delight in identifying places in the texts.

It was in a canvas playhouse on the front green in the quaint fishing village of Lochgilphead in Argyll that he encountered those cheek cracking winds, and what eventually became known as the “Tempest” (originally “The Tree Pest” about a dying Elm) was inspired by an encounter with “A poor bent manikin and with skin most leprous” that he met whilst sheltering from a storm in what was known as “An hostelry for the use of gentlepersons engaged upon commercial bizness”. In fact his entire stay in Argyll is tied up with weather and trees. He recounts how the party was unable to leave until “Sturdy foresters with saw and axe did cut us free.” Unlike Burns who seems to have come to Inveraray, got drunk, scratched up a pub window and left, Shakespeare stayed long enough to experience “The Weather” which is how he refers to it in his diary.

He won’t have seen the giant games of spillikins played by the elements, as stands of the oppressive Norway Spruce are riotously uprooted, but he would have seen the demise of many an oak tree, snapped rowan and tumbled birch. This damage, which he describes “As though celestial football fans had celebrated a hard fought contest”, stayed with him and re- appears in many of his early plays. Who can forget the lament of the gardener in “Richard II” who having “Bound up yon dangling apricox ” then laments “Gone, gone, all gone, alas my ruptured trees,” or Prospero declaiming “Now my trees are all o’er thrown and what shrubs I had are gone.”

Hamlet’s famous sapling dilemma is possibly one of the most oft quoted, from Titchmarsh to Don, “To plant or not to plant, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler to put the ilex there or the mulberry here”. One can scarce open the collected works without tripping over reference to trees and the effect of the weather upon them. Apart from the destruction of trees, surely a metaphor for the human condition, the re-location of trees forms part of the plot in “Macbeth.” We all remember the notorious occasion when the Burnham Tree Nurseries are pillaged by peripatetic tree fanciers and taken to Dunsinane as a birthday surprise for Macbeth. He is in fact more than surprised, and demands “Who can impress the forest, bid the tree unfix his earth bound root?” Well, we all know the answer to that!.

Shakespeare loved to play with words and pencilled into the margins of his typescripts are such tries as “A Winter’s Tilia,” “Much Ado About Ground Elder” and “Julius Cedar.” “As you Lathe It,” an unlikely subject, did in fact draw large crowds of people keen to demonstrate how they did, a surprising number of Poles invariably attended this play. Always topical, Shakespeare had a huge success with “The Merchant of Gdansk” about the Baltic timber trade. “The quality of our timber is not strained, it propeth up a roof in gentle Spain” is as famous as Hamlets oft quoted problem.

It’s not just the men folk faced with knotty problems. In “Twelfth Night” Viola asks of a passing peasant “What country tree is this?” “This is an lilac lady” is the reply “And what should I do with an lilac?” asks Viola, and many suggestions follow, from kindling to “Get a life.” Illyrian Lilac though, is a close-grained timber much sought after by spindle-diddlers and bespoke spurtle-turners.

It was the tree tax levied by Jimmy six and one (The Possession of Arboreal Matter and Related Stuffs Act) that caused Shakespeare to re-write virtually all his plays. The Globe Company found that the new tax made almost any play with more than two twigs in it prohibitively expensive to mount. The actor Jason Lilliecrap, always cast as “Sturdy Forester,” is recorded as saying “Thank God.” He started his own company and toured a completely treeless programme, himself playing the lead female roles. “LilliesCrap Theatre Co.” was not a success. The mis-print may have been a contributing factor.

Shakespeare’s true strength lay in his ability to completely transform a series of plays about the every day stories of country folk into the cannon of plays based loosely around well known quotations and aphorisms that we now recognise as being genius at work. His sponsor the Earl of Woodvale called it the most outrageous example of de- aforrestation that he had ever witnessed, and was firmly of the opinion that this sort of re-cycling was not what the council had intended. If a king hadn’t been short of a few baubees we would still be wondering at the extravagance that was “Good King John and the Beanstalk” and “Two GentleTree Planters of Venice.”

An edition of his journals was published posthumously by Jonathon “Pen” Gwynne a printer largely responsible for the popularity of “soft” backed books. Called “Meanderings of Mummers and Mountibanks” it included the entry where Wilfrid, decides to change his name to William, on the grounds that people would always associate Wilfrid Shakespeare with plays about derring do in the green woods and maidens lying on mossy primrose strewn banks. He felt that although many people thought that he had not written the new versions, being known as Wilfrid would do little to persuade them otherwise. Also “Although my Lord of Wood vale is credited with my works ‘tis only till such time as the fates decide, and then my true name shall be known” This entry has led to considerable speculation concerning the true authorship of the plays.

For the love of Wolfhounds

2009-07-27T03:49:00.000-07:00

We are now on our second wolfie, both have been rescue/rehoming dogs. Harris, our first was renamed from Dennis (the menace!), a pub dog, and victim of a relationship collapse and an attempt to keep him in a first floor one bedroom flat. He arrived sight unseen, and was just about the biggest dog I have ever met. Like all oversized dogs he suffered from the usual collection of complaints in his joints and a dickey ticker coupled with incontinence, which thank goodness he grew out of, but not until assorted vets had raised their holiday money off him.
We had an idea to mate him with our Deerhound (Ardkinglass stock) but he was too heavy, and Calico wouldn’t stand for him. Sadly he had a heart attack aged 8. It took two of us to dig a hole big enough for him,( Should the Kennel Club hire out dinky diggers?)He lies under a Eucryphia called the Harrybush. A previous wolfie X retriever called Hugo is under a fuchsia called the Hugglybush and Calico is under a hydrangea, which the deer are busy turning into a memory so it is fortunately not yet called anything; even I draw the line at Calicrangea! We even bury dead chickens under some sort of plant which has to be done fast, as our yellow lab, Raineach is inclined to bolt them down entire given half a chance.
Sophie, our present wolfie, found in distressing circumstances, has weathered her bad start very well So much so that after an MOT we decided to mate her. Not a very happy event with three still born and one live pup that she smothered and a Caesar to boot. Poor girl was very out of sorts for some time.
She then developed a benign growth at the top of her tail. It was excised horizontally, which meant every time her tail bent the stitches pulled, all we could do was dress it with wound powder and let it heal openly, so for nearly five months she had a gaping wound, which caused much comment when out.
She then decided that there was still something she could do to keep us concerned for her wellbeing by developing a symmetrical alopaecia, leaving her looking less than lovely. Whilst at a consult the vet said that Melatonin was frequently used in the States, but there were no studies. A quick troll through Google produced a company selling a Melatonin cream. Reasoning that a topical application made more sense for a skin condition, we bought and applied, and it worked! She has regrown all her hair on both sides. I thought I would run a control test in tandem, I can report that I have not shown any hair increase!
Finally any one looking to acquire a wolfie should seriously consider the colour of their every day clothing, not having any choice, we ended up with wheaten coloured dogs, jumpers, trousers, fleeces and furniture. A yellow Labrador wasn’t a clever find either!

The Names of Flowers

2009-07-26T04:41:00.000-07:00

On a distant hill, a ruined gable and a white horse
Should I know the name of these flowers?
Probably
I have passed this way before
I have passed this way before and picked them
I have passed this way before and picked them for my love
I should have said, I would have said
But I couldn’t say, my true love
Together we walked and looked at the distant hill
Together we lived in the distant house
Re-built in our dreams
Made whole by our love
And she rode the horse
Are these the same flowers?
Is this the same place?
Where I’m standing?
Looking
And on a distant hill, a ruined gable and a white horse
Running
Was the way this steep? and do I still like butter?
There’s no one to hold this flower to my neck
No golden glow on a grizzled chin
In my garden these were weeds
I pulled them out
In her heart I became a weed
She pulled me out
In my heart her roots still tangle
I went to the distant hill, and the ruined gable
Looking
All I found was a ruined gable
And no white horse
Should I know the names of these flowers?
Is that Love in Idleness? Heartsease? Love Lies Bleeding?
I always come this way it was easier once, with company
Was the way this steep?
Are these those same flowers?
There on a distant hill a ruined gable
Here moving softly and nearer
A pale horse

© Alexander Hamilton 2008

Indignation

2009-07-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

They've cut down all the trees

NO ! all the trees

Will you listen

Of course its too late

I KNOW they'll plant more

How long will that take

And the wrong sort

Whose being precious

Of course it matters

Look there

Don’t be smart

Out there

What do you see

Yes it’s a hill

It just appeared

It was under the trees

Of course I'm pleased

But it looks a mess

Why should I make sense

Nothing else does

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

Clinker Built

2009-07-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

I am not alone on the beach
There is a seagull
He is alone
Questing the tangle closing on me
Sand fleas flick and tick
Mermaids purses wait for their owners
Jellyblobs lie leathery
Their blue hearts dimming
Still a threat to the unknowing
Razor shells stick jaggy fingers
Up through the wrack
And everywhere the First smell
Tin traders, Caesar and Pendragon
Canute, Drake and Nelson
Trod and kicked through this smell

And now Mr Thompson and Shirley
Freed from coy towel
Run from the dunes
Each more extravagant
With every stride into the tangle
Gasping and shrieking
As bladder weed and tendril
Trip and slip them
They collapse into onto the sand
Laughing and clasping twining and twined
A loosing of straps a murmur an exclamation
Send Shirley clamouring back to the dunes
Mr Thompson in pursuit gruffly hallooing
The sea will return before they do
I will lurch off the sand
A part of the smell a part of the tangle a part of time
And swing on my mooring rope

© Alexander Hamilton 2008