There are days
when your footsteps in the sand
barely break the surface
when the grains are hard packed -
stacked by the receding tide
the sea seeped away
drained into the bay
those are the days
when you make no impression
barely a dent is rent
in the perfect surface
only the occasional crack
of a shell as your track
shifts to the high tide line
 
there are days
when the sand shifts -
drifts beneath your feet
each step an effort
in the soft brown sugar
of the shore
and others have been here
before, churning, turning
stirring its softness,
leaving it spoiled
soiled until the
tide turns
 
there are days
when the top layer
of sand looks firm
but your boots sink
several inches
into its depths
you plod on,
across the bank
leave holes where
you sank
but rose again
 
there are days
when the sea weeps  -
seeps its way
back up the shore
more and more
till what seems firm
is liquid
and when stepping forward
you realise
a little late
the fate awaiting -
the fluid form
lying low
ready to pull you beneath
its innocent surface
with an insistent grasping
 
there are days
when the wind howls
across the bay
your boots
sandblasted by the
loose top layer -
the poor dog’s eyes
filled with grit -
those are
no days to sit
and stare
out to sea

The day before yesterday
I met an old friend on the street
we embraced, kissed on both cheeks,
held each other longer than was
strictly necessary
 
Yesterday, I went to the supermarket
stocked up on what was required
respired, relieved, thankful to behold
full shelves and smiling people
standing close and chatting
not steering clear
two trolley lengths away
at all times
 
Yesterday, I took the dog to the park
threw his ball, watched the children
on the swings and roundabout
playing tig and tag, holding hands
watched a mother wipe a snotty toddler nose -
I didn’t flinch or move away
 
Today I drove out, out into the countryside
as far as I felt like going
and took the dog for a second walk
in the woods, because I could
 
Tomorrow, I shall book a two night stay,
for three months’ hence
in a favourite place
a treat, a retreat, a getaway
a stay away - a place where
I may well encounter strangers
in the bar - make new friends, perhaps,
sit close together, conversing
 
The day after tomorrow, I’m going to the cinema
with a friend. 
We’ll eat out beforehand,
nowhere fancy, just out – we’ll
raise a glass to friendship
 
Tomorrow, I’ll make up the beds
in the spare room, for my friends
coming to visit
 
The day after that,
I won’t feel annoyed when the
football comes on the telly
instead,
I’ll be glad for all the fans
out there, enjoying their Saturday
 
Next week, I’ll play music with my friends
at one of their houses
enjoy a glass of wine,
company, convivial conversation
and tunes
 
The week after that, I’ll join the writers’ monthly
gathering
enjoy a glass of wine,
company, convivial conversation
and stories
 
Today, I shook hands with
someone new I met on the beach.
 
Today, I did not feel afraid.


​
This is a poem I wrote for last month's writers' group meeting; the theme was 2021.  

Photo credit : Ailsa Watson

I wrote this free-form poem (with minor alterations) at the start of this year. It was a contribution to the Sustaining Life as a Creative Programme, run by the wonderful Creative Learning team in Aberdeen, which I was very fortunate to take part in. 
​The brief was to describe our creative journey. 

I am
 
I am the small pigtailed girl
Perched on the window seat, with
sugar paper and poster paints,
brush and water pot,
newspaper protecting
the wooden trolley
 
I am that girl in shorts and tee-shirt
on the west coast shore
searching for crabs every summer
under stones,
exploring rockpools
before rockpooling was a thing
collecting shells and pebbles,
sticks and stones
 
I am the girl playing in the
corrugated iron shed behind
my granny’s house
wildflowers in a jam jar on the rickety table -
the hedgehog visiting -
imagination my best friend
 
I’m the schoolgirl sailing on the loch
with my first love
 
I'm the teenager climbing hills with friends
gazing over Scotland  -
hills and heather
burns and boulders,
big skies
 
I am the student, drawing in my lab book,
Learning the nature of science
I am the scientist, fishing for facts about
Trout and mackerel and herring,
 
I am the translator, editor, creator,
putter-together of research volumes,
organiser of conferences and treasurer of troves
 
I am the mum with no clue -
doing, not making,
(except soup and cakes and occasionally marmalade)
Making do,
with a head crammed full, jammed full
of domesticity,
a scarcity of time to call mine
 
I am the thirty-something friend,
persuaded to trade
My violin for a fiddle,
To play tunes with people
Who would become pals
To add another dimension
to being
 
I am the mandolin-playing ceilidh band member,
calling out dance steps
- Oh, the feeling of power!
​ 
I am the teacher of students,
The organiser of labs and lectures,
Marker of essays,
And later,
Developer of screen-based things
With no song to sing
Or dance to bring
 
I am the escapee,
Fleeing to evening classes -
Some shaky pots, a few pale paintings,
Tiny steps
 
My sketchbook brought along
On family holidays
For rare moments of
aloneness
 
I am the e-learning adviser,
Brain addled by screens,
Quitting the squeaky lino floors
Before it was too late
 
I am the pupil once more, online
And for real,
(because I respond well to being
given homework)
 
I am the walker,
Walking with purpose -
Two Moonwalks
In three years. 
And Ben Nevis
No hesitation –
meditation.
 
I am the delivery driver,
Dropping off veg
Noticing things.
Gathering ideas
 
I am the spinner of stories
Weaver of yarns
 
I am the open studios partaker
Opening the door to my shed,
Pretending it is a studio,
letting people in to my life
To ask me questions
Which I find hard to answer –
When, What, Why, How?
It seems that some
Wish they had my life, whatever they
May think that is – living the dream –
An endless stream of ideas, most of which
Get washed away in the shower -
Down the drain, never to be
Seen again.
 
I am the artist, maker,
Creator of things
Which bring joy
 
I am the West coast
Inhabitant -
Still walking the tideline
In search of shells and pebbles,
Bleached bones of wood
Filling my pockets
Again and again
Still looking out to sea
And finding
Something there
 

I started writing this poem seven years ago. Today I finished it. This was prompted by a conversation last night about "mental load" and being directed to a cartoon illustrating this concept.  It is an interesting concept and I realised its close connection with my thoughts while writing this poem.  The pie chart above was constructed in 1999; that was not just about "mental load", but "physical load" as well.  I am half-hoping that the legend is illegible!  
NB: The poem was written at a time when we had a dog, a guinea pig and probably a budgie as well.  

Obstacles

This is the path
That leads to the shed
That Jennifer wants to write in.
 
This is the poo
That lies on the lawn
That blocks the path
That leads to the shed
That Jennifer wants to write in
 
This is the guinea pig
Nice and warm
Out in his hutch,
ignoring the storm
that needed fed
and straw for his bed
on the path to the shed
that Jennifer wants to write in
 
these are the garments
washed and wet
that need some drying
and ironing yet
 
here is the post
on the mat
needing opened
fancy that!
 
There is the telephone
Waiting to ring
Daring to call
To see if she’s in
 
Here are the dishes
In the sink
Here is the dog
Who needs a drink
 
Here is the clock
Ticking away
Measuring time
As it slips away
 
There is the rain
Falling out of the sky
Rescue the washing
-It’s nearly dry!
 
These were the obstacles
All in her head
Things to be done
And some to be said
 
Now she sees clearly
What she must do
-leave all the small stuff
And find a way through
To go on the path
That leads to the shed
That Jennifer's going to write in.

​Blackbird's warning call
Culvert water plays a tune
Plane passing over

Last week I enjoyed an evening out for a festive meal with the lovely folk who make up Deeside Writers Group.  Of course we set ourselves a little writing task for the evening and that was to write a short piece (no more than 50 words) using the prompt "restaurant" (kindly provided by Val of Buchanan's Bistro, where we were dining).  I didn't think too hard about the task, and found that a piece came to me in the form of a song. Written to fit the tune of "Oh my darling Clementine", these are the words that appeared.  It seemed apt for this time of year, with the lovely orange fruits in abundance, that this tune came into my head.  It was a song that my dad used to sing, mainly if not only, on long car journeys.  I meandered off for a reminder of the words - "In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine, lived a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine".  It is of course a tragic story, which I had forgotten in the intervening years.  So, I enjoyed my wander down memory lane; funny the paths some things lead us down.  Here is my offering - I had the foresight to print out several copies, and the group was generous in their joining in.  Happily the tune was familiar to everyone.  Oh I do like a good singalong!

Restaurant ditty
(to be sung to the tune of “Clementine”)
 
In a bistro
In the country
Near the Deeside
Railway Line
was a pair of
very fine chefs
and their cooking
most divine

Served they dishes
Of local produce
and some platters
mighty fine
And the diners
were not whiners
in that bistro
so divine
 

And now for something slightly different.  I don't always manage to find instant inspiration for my blog, so sometimes I go for a trawl through things I have written earlier.  There is plenty of it around, I can assure you.  This is not strictly-speaking a poem, it's more a "real-time" stream of observations from a train. That's how it was written. It's almost a series or collection of haiku, which could stand on their own.  As you can see from the date, it was written seven years ago.

(Aberdeen to Inverness, by train, 14/3/08)

 
three sheep, side by side
bask in spring sunshine
on a sloping field

tops of trees 
cluttered with crows
and their half-made nests

tiny calves
already wearing ear-tags
lie beside their mothers

bare trees
poised
to burst into life

train track runs
beside the burn
we go up as it goes down

river bluer
than the sky
smoothness hides its urgent flow

ramshackle byre
with a bucket by
the open door

ancient crumbled walls
of ruined house
two old trees – who lived there once?

boggy ponds
alongside the track
frog spawn possibilities

old bracken
last year’s heather
the colours of tweed

horses with their coats on
heads down
grazing

sheep tracks
etched on the hillside
centuries old

narrow field
ridged with sheep tracks
along its length

mole hills
in the perfect lawn
around the whisky store

fluffy white sheep
black faces
curly horns

the larches
still wearing their
brown winter coats

birches covered 
in lichen beards
no pollution here

seven pigeons
take off in unison
startled by the train

the gorse blooming 
by the track –
does it ever not?

piglets scamper in the mud
round their little nissen huts

wind farm 
scars the landscape
- distracts me from the kestrel

we can see
where the mole has been
- does he have any idea?

the edges of the town
spreading into a
building site

new houses 
with smart fences
- sore thumbs




 

I have been listening to Woman's Hour on Radio 4 again this morning, as I do most mornings.  The discussion was about choosing to have children versus choosing to remain childless.  I was reminded of a piece which I wrote a while ago.  Coincidentally, my thoughts have been on babies and children for the past few days, as our younger child turned twenty yesterday. Finally, the teenage years are over.  A new chapter is beginning. Here is the piece.

I Wish them Luck

the young married couple next door
have decided to have a baby

good for them
I wish them luck
No really, I do

But I also wish someone would tell them,
and I know that no-one will
and even if they did, the poor souls would not listen
to a word of it,
that they are not just having a baby –
they will be having

a tiny infant
who cries in the night
and demands their attention -
their attention
no-one else is going to
attend to its needs
they will have to
and they alone
or together
if they choose

a teething, gurning
one year old
who cries in the night
and demands to be soothed
not just once,
but many times

a defiant toddler
who says No before he learns to say
Yes, or please,
who lies on his back on the floor
and kicks his feet and screams 
very loudly when he does not
get his own way, and produces
large amounts of tears, snot
and poo, generally into nappies
and eventually, after you have
worked out some sort of system
or read a very clever book, but
probably mostly just listened to your own
mum, into the toilet.

a small child who socialises with
other small children and learns things
from them, not just from you.
Words like bum and fart and other
useful terms for bodily functions

a small child who has to go to school
but may not understand why this is so
who may go there the first day, come home
and say – so, I’ve been there, where do I go tomorrow?

a small child who asks interminable questions,
usually in the car at roundabouts or hazardous crossings
or while you are trying to remember who you are,
where you work and what you should have with you
in order to do that work.  A functioning brain is often helpful,
but scarily difficult to retain.

a slightly larger child who likes to have friends round to play
which necessitates conversing with other parents,
which often leads to comparisons which are nearly
always, no in fact are always distinctly unhelpful.
Especially if their smart little Alec can read before
he enters primary 1

So, the slightly larger child sounds a bit easier – yes 
and no – they still go to bed largely when you say so
you know where they are all the time , as you have a calendar
strapped to your person at all times so that you don’t forget to
collect them from swimming/judo/karate/piano/French lessons,
but they have by now decided what they do and don’t like to eat.
So you eat what they eat.  Do you like being an eight year old again?
No, I didn’t think so.  Best to feed then what you have, if you possibly can.
Excellent.

The even larger child is lurching towards being a teenager.
A word that did not exist in recent times.
well, when I was one, I wasn’t.  It wasn’t.  They weren’t.  There weren’t any.
Well, there were, but they didn’t know that they were.  If you see what I mean.
Maybe you still are one.  And have just had a baby.  How scary is that?

So, the teenager emerges from the cocoon of puberty, only they don’t hide
away much.  And they’re quite noisy.  Play loud music.  Assert their rights.
Without taking any responsibility.  Treat parents like slaves. Only worse.
But then that’s probably our fault.

And then, eventually, this tiny infant, baby, small child, bigger child, big child, teenager, becomes a …

human being

so, not a baby, then?
no, a lot, lot more than that.

be careful what you wish for.

Happy New Year.  I hope that 2014 brings peace, health and happiness to you, wherever you may be.


I am constantly drawn to the sea.  Whether it is stormy, calm or something in between it is constant and reassuring in a way that is hard to explain.  Instead of trying to do so myself, here is a verse of "Sea Fever" by John Masefield.  Which sums it up rather well, I think.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.