The Boatshed

part - the first

waves broke gently on Grimsay's shoreline

as cobwebs were being spun in the morning dew

Grandad Mckenzie was in his boatshed

a skilled artisan, he was one of the few

surrounded by pipe smoke and old school geometry

a low sun brings out medullary rays in the oak

the coach bolts are ready for the second fixing

if he can see what he's doing through a veil of smoke

eighty degrees and yet another coat of paint

with no dust extraction or protective gear

this artist in wood could make it bend and turn

the days reward - a cigar and a beer

the decking was made of the finest Douglas Fir

marked out and squared off in indelible stain

with meticulous care all of the edges were true

a hull as solid as his hands were on the plane

he lived in constant fear of making a mistake

tho for every problem there was always an answer

mostly solved by his smoke stained bevel gauge

the hull was complete when he was diagnosed with cancer

his final days were spent tapering the mast

until he knew he wasn't going to get any better

a skilled artisan knows 'copper nails don't rust'

his final hours were spent writing a letter.

part - the second

over the water on Ulster's rocky North coast

Seamas works tirelessly building his boat

Grandad looks down from an old dusty photograph

on the young man, who he always used to dote

varnish hangs in the air like memories do

reflecting on the past as another coat dries

Seamas was heartbroken when Grandad was jailed

nailed down by a pack of well crafted lies

caught in a storm off the North coast of Lewis

cost his Brother the life of his only Daughter

although twenty years have now come to pass

time couldn't heal five long years for manslaughter

as a free man Archie moved to the Western Isles

now that the family had been torn in two

like pollen to the flower, the sea was to Archie

but Seamas was determined that the truth would shine through

under an Autumn sun of promise Seamas set sail

on a glassy sea, Grimsay was well in his range

but so were the jagged rocks that protruded the blue

blithely unaware that the sea's temper could change

white monsters began to crash against the bow

battening the hatches, he soon began to tire

skeletal timbers ripped away in anger

to become scattered driftwood for someones else's fire

part the third

just another Mariner's tragedy on the sea

Seamas staggered exhausted on to the shore

with his heart grabbed by the anchor of vindication

you couldn't pull it out of the depths anymore

but just like a Sea Eagle rising on a thermal

Seamas was soon banging on his Grandad's door

a neighbor informed him he'd just missed the funeral

now he's hungrier than ever to know the score

imperiously, he stomps over to the Boatshed

with fear and trepidation he turned the rusty key

then face to face with the most awesome revelation

a perfect boat, all that was missing was the sea

amazing as this great unveiling was

it was overshadowed by something even more

Seamas struggles to hold his thoughts together

a letter with his name on is pinned to the door

pages of history that had screamed for justice

"Grandad why did you hang on to the truth for so long?"

his tears, they fell where the hull met the keel

hands all a quiver as he reads his Grandad's swan song

they argued as she refused to wear a life jacket

she wasn't pushed, she tried to swim for land

in defiance of Archie's screaming orders

now the line has been drawn firmly in the sand

part the fourth - 'copper nails don't rust'

Seamas lingered marvelling at the vessel

letter clutched in hand, he continued to weep

as a young lad Grandad took him under his wing

but now the learning curve was almost too steep

walking around the Boatshed looking at the tools

in his head was the  sound of steel upon steel

has the finishing line shifted position again?

The boat has his name on it, it just doesn't seem real

Archie's blade and chisel were always kept sharp

life can be similar to wood - always full of knots

when it's smooth you make the right decisions

at other times, you just cast the wrong lots

Seamas' future is now fully caulked and fastened

tho inside his head is all of a clamour

as everything slowly starts to fit into place

copper nails go in with the tap of a hammer

waves still break gently on Grimsay's shoreline

cobwebs are still being spun in the morning dew

Seamas proudly  backs the vessel into the Boatshed

to begin from the start line where everything's new

fresh hope has arisen from the depths of despair

and  cabinet scrapers, bevel gauges and dust

only time could replace the innocence that was lost

as a wise old man once said 'copper nails don't rust'.

Inside the Boatshed on the Isle of Grimsay

 

For any Squirrel

I sensed motion out of the corner of my eye

a flicking bushy tail heading for the sky

scurrying up the trunk of an old oak tree

this acrobatic rodent defies gravity

your snap decisions are always precise

leaping from branch to branch without thinking twice

balance has never been an issue at all

scampering along fences with no fear of a fall

searching for those nuts that you've buried in the ground

busy rotating hands go round and round

I offer you a nut but you wont take one yet

aware of my presence but perceived as a threat

energetic rodent, one day you'll be my friend

when oppression finally reaches it's end

when Edenic beauty embraces the land

and in that day you'll eat out of my hand.

Standing Stone

mocking the relentless passing of time

rooted in the ignorance of your crime

patient warrior forever waiting

what is it that you're anticipating?

lichened loneliness, solitary figure

standing resolute through island rigor

a window into our ancient past

how did you know that their rites wouldn't last?

treading sunshine on the way up Borve hill

where the machair sweeps of it's own free will

to sea shanties and the wind's howling rage

will the bird ever be freed from it's cage?

passing centuries, words lost on the wind

the silent witness is well underpinned

perfectly aligned to the moon and sun

but will you be there when the race is run?

Tigh na Mara

Please come up and visit me, 

in my house down by the sea

hear the rolling of the waves

they will make you feel so free

there are colours in the mist

be there at the break of dawn

you can etch names in the sand

of the ones that you still mourn

come, I'll take you for a walk

all along the rocky shore

see the Plover foraging

in nature's bounteous store

scattered footprints in the sand

will lead you to the fire

a salt wind will caress you

as the flames dance even higher

just like harmless passing thoughts

clouds gently float on by

over yonder, distant mountains

raise their heads toward the sky

with every single passing wave

something new is left behind

we'll stravaig along the beach

you never know what we might find

come and taste the peacefulness

please come here to be free

before the childrens sandcastles

start to crumble in the sea

we'll walk the golden mile

together hand in hand

when the tide has smoothed away

those names written in the sand.

I was only a spectator

I was only a spectator

had no need for a narrator

above a docile mass of cloud

the silent glory screamed aloud

no better time to be alive

indelibly etched on my hard drive

how the majesty rolled on by

on the other side of the sky

island peaks of Wester Ross

protruding through the candy floss

an awesome privilege to be there

a pilgrimage up in the air

but it went by far too fast

of course the grandeur could not last

as the mountains got too cold

step by step we grew too old

though time surely did it's healing

under a saphire blue ceiling

a cloudless bright metallic dome

many miles away from home

an awesome privilege to be there

all you could do was stand and stare

on the artwork of the Creator

I was only a Spectator.

Breadmen

Stan and Dave were Breadmen

had been since they left school

now they're in their forties

when they find out life is cruel

Stan and Dave were Breadmen

they thought they knew the score

but now they're in their forties

and have just been shown the door

more men in suits at meetings

showed that something wasn't right

they talked about 'top slicing'

to justify their plight

this wasn't on the roadmap

but they're not in control

unexpected situations

and now some heads will roll

they started work at fifteen

'a job 'till they retire'

now they've both got families

and hope's thrown in the fire

sailing on a calm sea

when everything is fleet

no-one saw this coming

now things are not so sweet

daily mental breakdowns

inner sense of wrong and right

calls to the job centre

to fight a pointless fight

on no-one elses radar

their future plans were through

Stan and Dave were Breadmen

that's all that they could do

after much negotiation

the redundancy was paid

a so called job for life

they felt cynically betrayed

like a Rose that always blooms

people always need bread

now the petals have fallen

as unemployment spread

they lived right near the workplace

had no need for a car

now the factory's closed it's doors

they're rooted where they are

struggling to feed their families

not wanted anymore

Stan and Dave were Breadmen

and they've just been shown the door

thus far on the ship of life

never widened their scope

Stan and Dave were Breadmen

but now they cannot cope

a joke without a punchline

that's how it seemed to be

thrown out of their routine

and wandering aimlesssly

a hard time for their families

when they had to relocate

to leave their beloved homes

for a local council estate

impossible to retrain

now the sky is not so blue

Stan and Dave were Breadmen

that was all that they could do.

I knew these chaps from when I cleaned the windows at Sunblest bakeries. When redundancies were made Stan and Dave were very disconsolate. I sympathised with them asking perhaps if they could retrain - "we can't, we're Breadmen" came the curt reply. I suggested that they could at least, surely get a job at Tescos, "We can't we're Breadmen and that's all that we can do" came the reply, with a note of finality.

November Woods

The woods have all got leafless trees

no green curtain to stop the breeze

soggy paths become unclear

Winter snowfalls getting near

solid stand the stately pines

in a lonely place

staring into space

they knew the signs

the golden sun is silver now

the fruit has fallen from the bough

bare branches spread towards the sky

Swallows and Swifts have said goodbye

staccato crickets have long gone

Autumn's finished

colours diminished

leaves can't hold on

distant fields gather under the dust of sleep

Autumn has died and so they weep

a silence unknown to our ears

but its calm allays our fears

to some the Winter lasts too long

Orchids die in frost

meadows count the cost

before Spring's new song.

Fields

Those fields have been there for centuries

the sun just loves to shine on them,

like the living light of a single malt.

It was a short pull to the modest summit,

I caught my breath and straightened my back -

whilst taking in the tone poem of a view.

On grasping the Olive branch,

I began to feel young again

and reflected on thoughts of tomorrows.

A flock of Oyster Catchers

rose and disappeared like rising smoke 

... the fields will always be there.

The Buoys

Amidst swirling temptation and the crashing of doubt

a lone vessel is out there bobbing about

mimicking the movement of the fish underneath

while the boisterous sea is sharpening its teeth

the buoys are there to guide you back to the land

where the raging surf can only hit the sand

the buoys are there to help you find your way back

their guidance will help you stay on the right track

as time goes by the tide will surely get stronger

problems don't vanish they last even longer

but the buoys remain resolute, static on the sea

to guide you to the harbour, where you know you should be

you can't fail to see them, their colours are so bright

to make sure you don't stray to the left or to the right

in our war against the 'authority of the air'

you can be sure that the buoys will always be there.

On Seals and smiles

I think we love you because you make us laugh

I can't believe you'll pose for a photograph

it's true, agility isn't exactly displayed

but you seem happy with the way you're made

all the time in the world in the midday sun

you don't want to ignore us but join in the fun

I don't complain when you take the fish out the sea

you've got every right to be here as me

if I was in trouble you'd come to my aid

yet it was us that first drew the blade

claims of exploitation, we can't deny those

yet you can spin a ball around on your nose

utterly defenceless you have the perfect gift

when this world was fashioned you must have gone adrift

free of aggression you're mild through and through

wouldn't it be nice if all humans were like you.

Grace

Silhouetted against a morning sky

the antique stag marks his family nearby

scattered all over the corries, glen and burn

he stands at a distance, his head doesn't turn

see the Deer gallop with such grace and power

without a sound as sweet as a flower

the age of chivalry may well have passed

but your gentle nature is hardwired to last

Ptarmigan blend in on snow laden peaks

your dignity is your silence, yet it still speaks

down amongst the Birch trees on the verge of sleep

your pathway to virtue retains it's upkeep

the purple wilderness is entirely yours

and the dotted lochans on russet gold moors

while the wise old Stag still watches from on high

silhouetted against an evening sky.

The Living Years

You would try to say sorry when the temper had gone

but those closest to you just couldn't move on

couldn't you just get control before you spoke

instead of passing it all off as a joke

how the door would often fly off its hinges

not a cameo role or even the fringes

walking on eggshells for fear what might assail

a remote pure sky or a furious gale

on top of your game or the end of your tether

it's hard to tell as mountains have their own weather

should we laugh along with you or be in fear

that volatile temper was always near

an embrace with a cuddle or a fiery shout

you don't go near a firework that hasn't gone out

we couldn't have drawn closer in the living years

yet nothing dries quicker than a childs tears.

Windswept Tree

See there a solitary windswept tree

is that the way life is meant to be

unrelenting gusts make you bend and shake

just like us, we bend before we break

with every gale you howl and moan

other trees have gone, you're on your own

you recall  the storms that raged in the past

you knew that a calm spell wouldn't last

what is it that gives you the will to live

maybe you've still got something to give

you'll still be there through earth's dark night

when all has faded to black and white

constantly exposed with nowhere to hide

caught half way between fear and pride

looking at nature within you and me

you are so much more than a Windswept Tree.

      This tree lies on the road between Gairloch and Kinlochewe. I've tried to put it into

        poetical form before and I haven't finished with it yet!

Waiting for Spring

The woods are waiting

the mornings are dark

the meadows are bleak

now Winter has been.

Anticipating

the song of the Lark

the birds will all speak

when everything's green.

The Beautiful Game - Part, the fourth

Will the fighting ever stop?

Will the penny ever drop?

Will the money ever end?

Will the banks refuse to lend?

When they play without a crowd

when the stadium isn't loud

when they hang their heads in shame

then they'll know it's just a game

but who really pulls the strings?

Has greedy commerce spread it's wings?

After all is said and done

it was just a bit of fun

just ask any Football fan

what brings out the worst in man

and he will hang his head in shame

Football is the Devil's game!

The Beautiful Game - parts one, two and three, go way back to  poemblog3.blogspot.com.

Life of Chess

Sixty four squares on a marble board

the possibilities are endless

the Castle is a haven for his Lord

but will the gallant pawns save us

real estate game with cold precision

the lady will sanction the moves you make

but who is it who makes the final decision

not the King he's never made a mistake

the square you're on now is what matters most

you can adjust if circumstances change

on the Bishop's path you see the sign post

some interactions are certainly strange

so we all had to learn how to play chess

by keeping an eye on all the pieces

we were duty bound to second guess

until our loyalty increases.

no leaps of faith just keep thinking ahead

but if you lose your Queen you've lost the lot

we are all involved it has to be said

whether you're able to play Chess or not.

A Collage through time

Rocky Giants look down on us with suspicion as we walk by their streams and lochs - through water as clear as dewdrops you can see the river bed as the stream irresistably is drawn toward the sea. 

Walking down snow laden slopes in strong duple time to the footfall of the second movement of Schubert's 8th symphony - the sky is as blue as an Oriental silk embroidery - the softness of the snow is matched only by the sweetness of the air. 

We walked this rugged coastline with our children - a sequestered corner where the bog cotton waves at you like myriads of hankies - seaward, a flotilla of isles providing a Cartographers nightmare! 

On a boat on the loch, at one with the water, at one with the land at one with each other - the peace is tangible and beautiful - overhead a Holst of stars begin to twinkle - the Rocky Giants look down on us with a smile of approval.

Metamorphosis

He acknowledged that he'd had his day in the sun

decimating cabbages was so much fun

but the Caterpillar just couldn't see it coming

that he would spend the rest of his life humming

he had worked so hard for many a day

but creation would have the final say

into a cosy curled up leaf he did creep

eat his last meal and drifted off to sleep

what happened next was largely a mystery

one of the greatest acts of nature's history

then as flakes of chrysalis slowly unfurled

a Butterfly emerged into a beautiful new world.

Now Winter has gone

Nature à la carte

let the Spring unfold

a feast for the eyes

as the days grow long

bejewelled works of art

a joy to behold

bounteous Butterflies

now Winter has gone.

See the Lamb

will the heavenly bell ring any louder

can we walk tall and be even prouder

the harvest season doesn't last very long

then your spirit will soar and you'll burst into song

 

lambing is soon

yearning for the time when everything is new

and peace is as fresh as the morning dew

when water bursts forth to bless the barren ground

and a single wicked person cannot be found

lambing is soon

pure silence of beauty will sweep you away

it's not here yet but you believe in 'the day'

playtime's nearly over there's no need to fear

blessings in the Good Land wipe away every tear

lambing is soon

how is it possible to all love one another

to let everyone be your Sister and Brother

the Shepherd will soon send out the alarm

never fear you'll come to any lasting harm

see the Lamb!

and finally one more ditty...

The Answer

At lambing time Shepherds will work till they drop

so why is it that they struggle to sleep?

Maybe it's because they don't know when to stop

what can they do? Maybe try counting Sheep!

Toodles, Marky x.