Snow in Paisley December 2020

And comes a pure white blanket laid

around the river Cart

Across the darkened thoughts of man

a Love which does impart

And o´er the bogs and swamps there´s ice

up to the Abbey door

A voice says “Man with all your cares

be still for just an hour”

The darkened views of waning health,

exchanged for winter cheer

The snow reflects a gentle calm

upon the town so dear

And on the braes the deer are seen

walking proudly by

For no man can touch their safety now

upon their mountain high

Upon the tombs of rested men

lies layers of icy sense

Reflecting that the One great Mind

preserves their innocence

Calling Freedom – A Poem for Scottish Independence

Notice how strongly the fire begins to burn, fed by the air of Freedom
Who has ever fought against our Freedom and won?
See how it burns away bad opinions, and the water of our burns flood
For our betterment, our blood and our places, the water rises.

See the fire and water rise
Hear the winds of our mountains roar
See how they come to take their own, calling for us to stay faithful
Do not stem the water or extinguish the fire
Leave our land’s trees and its streams and it´s fires
To call Freedom, the voice carried in the wind

The courageous gun and sword laid down before our enemies
Shining and moving in museums of a time long ago
Quaking and shaking of cannons in castles
Water and fire is what defends us now, ancestral whispers, Fed by Freedom´s breath of air

See the fire and water rise
Hear the winds of our mountains roar
See how they come, to take their own, calling for us to stay faithful
Do not stem the water or extinguish the fire
Let our land’s trees and its streams and it´s fires, be,
To call Freedom, the voice carried in the wind

The Hawthorn – Kilbirnie auld cemetery poem

Daniel 2: 21

Upon the leaf of hawthorn green appears a drop of dew, with spiders webs reflecting frost upon the bush´s hue.

And comes an Angel staff in hand, reflected in the drop, where Lord and Lady Crawford lie, with sticks and lollipops.

As the sun does take a turn, the whited ground turns green, the Angel walks towards the gate and light shines in between.

And as the dew dries for the day, a sign that autumn comes, as well as days where dew will stay till sunset has begun.

And as the Angel´s shadow moves along the back kirk wall, acid rain from steel work days the people do recall.

Her sandals bare, they leave a trace of markings in the clay, where snowdrops rise beneath her feet on snowy winter days.

And to the gate she slowly walks, her staff upon the ground, with every turn a splash of white can surely here be found.

By the sign of service times, a smaller crack appears, a line upon an ageing brow brings a grandson´s fears.

And as she leaves, our minds are changed but not filled up with fear, her coming speaks of life more meek with passing of the years.

#Poem For Our American Cousins

Romans 8:17

In every year thats passes by, there’s friends from overseas, visiting a little town with dreams of family.

Perhaps Place castle some will say, or found in Walker Hall, perhaps a line of great descent, behind Tianna Falls.

Walking streets which long since gone, with hopes of names or face, wearily they pace around to find the slightest trace.

And when we ask about the task, the answer’s never clear, identity or Grandpa’s home or memories they hold dear.

Still there is a waiting wealth, which passed through every line, a joyful welcome and a smile to all who take the time.

And legacies of golden bowls surrendered long ago, exchanged for joy preserved in time, for future folk to know.

Heirs of joy, and stewardship still, which lasts beyond our peers, kindness, smiles remembered still throughout the passing years.

If today a search does come to wanton lonely minds, think not of watches or old clocks to search for back in time.

Instead to know their sense of joy, is shared today by all, a random act of kindness do, instead of searching halls.

For welcome, joy and happiness was theirs and ours today, there is no forgetting acts of Love which fall on minds today.

Make your mark for future lines, by random acts of good, remembered more by other folk than silver, gold or wood.

For Paisley and it’s Places

Perhaps upon the River Cart or by its dwindling streams

We feel a heart that’s beating power without another means

A power that turns the waiting tide and waters plants and flowers

Turning students to their books in every waitng hour

A power that lights the morning dawn and dusk a gentle glow

A power that hold each swan intact as waters gently flow

A guiding light which simply “Is” with no demands on man

While preachers loudly scream and shout that all the folk are damned

A power that needs no words nor praise to move within it’s place

For it has the world for man to feel it’s gentle guiding pace

And if by chance an apple tree should spring in Barshaw Park

Or nestling feathers after flight, you see a morning lark

Look upon its shining beak or feathers black and pure

Worship not the image, mind, but the power that it endures

And when the apple tree no more, holds up it’s greenish fruit

Look toward the power in Life for all things absolute

Only the real stands up to time, with majesty and robes

All else disappears from sight, with pain and anxious throws

And so the real in everything is found not in the clay

But in the power of Life itself which opens up the day

Dwell not in things which are not real but look behind the eyes

There you find the real idea of all that Love implies

Droplets of Love

Just like the rain on Garnock stream or dew on May’s fair morn

Or upon the Spider web in tombstones left forlorn

 

A gentle power of Love does fall on mills in Knoxville Road

And seen upon the smiling face of babes in their abode

 

Or random acts of kindness shown in finding mobile phones

Or helping older people walk on ice on Milton Road

 

Or in the eyes of little deer which run through open fields

In steel work sheds with gypsies´ beds and talks of business deals

 

Through different cables power runs to light the darker nights

Through different folk a gentle love expresses its own light

 

In every man a power shines from Place to Ladeside vale

Reflecting joy with sweet accord o’er mountain hill and dale

 

The Rowan Tree – A Poem

This one is about the Rowan Tree which was in my Grandfather’s garden in Castle Drive, Kilbirnie It is likely still there.

I wanted the poem to catch that idea that some people  relish the shade but then complain about the darkness 🙂

In the shade of Grandpa’s house
There stood a Rowan Tree
Where my Brother tried to climb
With Rosalyn and me

Every day my Grandpa came
Admired it´s towering boughs
While we as children playing there
Saw darkened twigs and crows

Shadows hung upon his life
With towering darkened power
Yet we as children plain could see
Their withering every hour

Its leaves held back the sunshine light
Its branches stern with years
Sitting with his chair and pipe
It calmed away his fears

Yet we as children playing in sight
Saw only twigs and leaves
Revealing more of sky to us
Than he could ever see

We pointed up at shafts of light
Throughout the darkened power
Whilst he preferred the shaded glade
To pass the wakened hour

We saw sun and endless days
Upon his chair he sat
Despite the passing years it stood
The tree was sound at heart