Books

Bound and Folded

Walk of the Autumn Trees

By daylight in the summer and moonlight in the winter, whatever the weather she loves her walk. Nose down snuffling amongst the undergrowth, tail wagging with pleasure as she sniffs out secret stories hidden beneath the copper leaves.

Her tail stops momentarily, head cocked to one side, listening. Your gaze follows hers, travelling up the tall

sentinel trees to the sky above, searching the maze of greens and blues for the source of the sound. Another gust of wind and the trees sway and creak, groaning at the thought of winter storms to come.

They play hide and seek in their sequined autumnal costumes, glinting in the waning sun, beacons amongst the dark sultry pines.

Branches of finger-like liquorice quiver, rustling with the breeze, gold and bronze shimmering in the delicate

sunlight, casting an amber hue over the carpet

She’s there, eager faced, beckoning you to throw the stick that she’s carefully placed, on a cushion of browning

leaves. Icy cold to touch, temperature dipping with the sun, the stick tumbles through the air. She dives off, crashing

through the undergrowth to anticipate the landing.

Leaves scatter, somersaulting skyward, dancing momentarily in the watery sunlight, revealing a delicate

honeycomb tapestry. Yellows, reds and browns, finely woven into intricate lace, to shroud an autumnal window.

Honey coloured bracken, dry and brittle from the seasons changing weather, snaps under the energetic search

for the treasured stick. A final plunge, stems snapping, pure joy she’s found her stick.

The walk of the autumn trees ends for another day.

The Elements of Life

I am the water that quenches your thirst,

the drip from melting snow.

I cascade and gurgle down mountainsides

to estuaries and oceans below.

I am the ground you stand on

the earth between your toes.

The ploughed field with sprouting crops,

the food that feeds your growth.

I am the very air you breathe.

The sound of rustling leaves.

The icy wind on a winter’s night

that chills you to the bone.

I am the flame that keeps you warm,

a flicker from a flint of old,

dancing and burning through forests,

travelling to places unknown.

Ancient woods the tree of life,
we’ve lived as one since time began.

Now we’re damaged or destroyed,
struggling to keep our balance.

There’s time to reunite

and douse the fires that burn,
cleanse water, earth and air.
Harmony will return.

A wee note

"Journey of Dreams" is a poem inspired by chasing dreams.
The idea of living in a motorhome for a ski season was the dream. When I achieved this ultimate endeavour, I discovered that extreme living and skiing were not for me. What I didn't expect and to my surprise, is the compromise being totally fantastic.

There's a fine line between living a dream and surviving a nightmare. It takes a leap of faith to discover where your line is and be prepared for the line to move.

Journey of Dreams



Jump aboard the journey of dreams.

Your destination is aspiration.

Come prepared to be astounded

buy your ticket with anticipation.

Take that leap and head for the clouds

to the unknown, discover beyond.

Embrace the storms that come along.

They fuel the engine as you respond.

There isn’t a time of arrival,

an adventure to relish as you go!

Stoke the boiler with all you see.

Determination navigates the flow.

Slow the train down to disembark.

Hop back on when the spirit is willing.

It’s your timetable tailor made

to the places where dreams are fulfilling.

Midnight Feast

Midnight Feast



Steel grey with a slash of white, a heron stands motionless, visible by her lack of movement as everything else bends and sways to the rhythm of the wind. She struts forward angular to the curves of undulating iris leaves and, with a lazy stretch of her wings, takes flight towards a more sheltered pool.

Statuesque, melding into the dappled light, she

stands patiently waiting for the right moment. Finally, she achieves her preferred place, an oval sandstone island just off to one side of the main pool, perfect for watching her prey beneath the coppery waters.

They flicker beneath the reflected rocks, aware of

their visitors arrival. She’s been before and they’re now wise of her intent. The carp slip down into the darker depths, ghostly shadows amongst the pebbles. The waiting game begins. Even the leaves cease whispering, settling with expectation to the melodic sound of tumbling water. Time passes; the shadows soften and stretch across the glistening water as though they’re tired and want the game to end. It’s been a while. She’s young and hopeful. The wait continues, but hunger is setting in. The sun dips further with ever lengthening shadows. There’ll be a full moon rising. Time to move to where the fishes are less canny.

As she reaches the loch, she glides down,

stretching her long legs out before her, gently landing on cool damp sand bathed in moonlight. She moves without a murmur towards a bed of reeds eyeing the waters around, hoping to spot movement within the inky depths. Another waiting game begins as she stands at the water’s edge. The evening air is still after the morning winds enticing clouds of night time insects out to dance in the silver light, skimming the darkening waters. She watches as the tempo increases, seducing the fish, drawing them to the surface and at last with a single plunge her spear like beak, catches her hors d’oeuvre. The fish glints and shimmers as she juggles it into position, then slipping down her gullet into her empty stomach.

Let the feast begin!

In Search of the Secret Garden

In Search of the Secret Garden



I turn right at a discarded pigeon’s egg shell, ducking under branches, heading somewhere that’s in my imagination, determined that today will be the day I find the secret garden.

Years ago, relaxing over a dram, a gamie described

the most enchanting place he’d stumbled across whilst stalking a stag. He had always believed it had led him there. His story has stayed with me, and the desire to retrace his steps has grown stronger.

So here I am, ducking branches, collecting pine

needles down my neck and squelching through tea-coloured puddles. The further I go, the denser the trees become, as though they’re closing ranks. White spores from hoof fungi appear to illuminate a path through the gloom. I stumble on, having lost all track of time. Deep down, I know I should turn back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of

turquoise. Cautiously, I move forward, searching for its source, trying not to snap twigs. It flashes by again. I gasp and hold my breath, noticing a change in the air. The sweet peaty smell of decaying wood has faded. It’s now fresher, with a gentle breeze bringing the sound of gurgling water. I Peer through the trees towards it, noticing a glint of sunlight dancing on tumbling water. Above, looking down, a kingfisher sits on a branch eyeing the pool below. The serenity framed between the partially open doors is breathtaking. At last, I’ve found the secret garden. I stand mesmerised until the doors silently close, vanishing into the twilight and leaving me in an ever-darkening forest.

I retrace my steps, dreaming of sitting for hours by

the pool, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, and watching dragonflies dance over shimmering waters. I stumble on, my boots sinking into the gloopy peat. Was it real, I wonder? The memory of such an idyllic scene will stay with me forever.

As I leave the forest behind me, I look back into

the darkness. The trees are now innocent shadows murmuring in the breeze, impenetrable.

Wish You Were Here

A wee note

During a hot spell, I stood in my garden staring west at the continuous blue sky. My hope for rain was in vain, as there were no clouds in sight. As I turned to continue with the gardening, I noticed at my feet a poppy seed head standing resolutely. She also appeared to be staring west; this is her poem.

Wish You Were Here

I stand waiting,

remembering

sunlight playing on my petals.

You quenching my thirst.

Wish you were here.

The hum of bees fills the air

full of tangible golden pollen.

Hover flies dancing,

petals falling.

Wish you were here.

My belly swells with the taste of honey

drying in the late summer heat.

Ready to split

destiny spills out.

Wish you were here.

The ground is now parched

cracked and dried out.

Destiny waits.

Wish you were here.

Temperature dips

a gasp of air.

Wish you were here.

Black clouds rumble

tears flood out.

Rejoice you’re here!