EMPTY SLIPPERS

Get your hanky ready. Not sure where this came from, it just fell on to the page one night.

EMPTY SLIPPERS.

I know one day I will have to move them

but for now they can sit where they are,

on your side of the bed.

I’m not ready to move on, to talk about you

in the past tense,

to smooth out your indentation in the bed,

like some ruffled memory best forgotten.

They can sit on the floor, as if your feet were

about to slip into them again and dance across the floor

making me laugh the way you always did.

Yes, they are not in the way.

Not now it’s only me, sitting here,

in the window, where you told me I would catch cold,

until you slipped your arms around me.

If I close my eyes, you can slip them round now,

I know you’re here somewhere, in a parallel world,

waiting and watching, probably making the angels smile,

while everyone tip toes round me, whispering about grief

and time, what do they know?

Know about us, you and me?

It was special, wasn’t it?

So special, I know you’re here,

as the shadows flicker across the wall,

stretching like spiders and eagles wings,

crawling higher and higher, tip toeing across

the ceiling where we counted clouds and sheep

and anything else in our conspiring minds,

making reasons to stay awake and hold hands.

Sleep beckons me now,

as I roll into bed, not touching your half,

for fear of cancelling your shape,

they don’t know it of course,

but they don’t know lots,

all they see is the tears washing off my face,

and the empty slippers.

What's happened to the most Famous name in the Knitwear Industry?

THE FINAL SLAP

I’m almost afraid to admit it, but it’s more than forty years since I wobbled my way down to the stables with a bucket of oats on the handlebars of my rickety push bike. (My pony needed feeding before school.) No doubt these days I would be chastised for no helmet and well, the bucket on the handlebars would have them flinging the “ ‘elf and safety m’larky” at me. Echoing in my ears as I wobbled my way was the sound of the mill hooters, signalling clocking-on time for the hordes of workers responsible for producing garments that were internationally acclaimed. These workers were the “real people”, people who had been born into the life of the woollen mills. Generations earned their money with pride. Camaraderie was supreme. They worked hard, looked after each other, took good holidays in distant climes but were always happy to come home. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, all gave their working lives to Pringles.

The people in the Border town of Hawick are a friendly bunch. They are passionate about their traditions, their Common riding and their rugby. But for many the current news that Pringles of Scotland are about to shut down their operation in the town comes as the final slap in the face. No doubt tongues will wag and heads will be shaken in disbelief that such an important part of the history of the town is about to be lost forever. How can this be allowed to happen? How on earth must the retired workforce feel?

Hawick people have always believed in quality. They don’t “do” el cheapo. Which makes it all the sadder that the reason for the demise of such a dynasty as Pringles of Scotland is cheap imports, created through cheap foreign labour.

In recent years many of these proud workers were forced to queue on the pavement awaiting their redundancy pay. Queuing like they were waiting for a fish supper. For some the ordeal reduced them to tears. Was it really necessary to inflict such a cruel treatment upon them?

So what now for this Border town with its beautiful park and recently opened Heritage Centre? How are they going to explain away the downfall of what must be the most famous name EVER in the knitwear industry? How will the “auld faithfuls” deal with the very heart of the industry they made so great being ripped out?

Wouldn’t it be nice if some of the superstars who proudly flaunt the Pringle banner got together and devised a rescue package to put Pringle back where it belongs. Yes, I know I’m only dreaming, but in a wee Border town where the rugby players have the hearts of lions, they all raise the war cry, “it’s not over ‘til it’s over.”

Better still, perhaps this is all a nightmare and tomorrow I am going to wake up and find that Pringles is back where it belongs, flying the flag for Scotland and a wee Scottish Border toon.

REASON TO DREAM

For all those who believe in love.

REASON TO DREAM


Red roses, blue eyed children,
shoreline walks beneath an inky sky,
where nature's headlamp makes you believe
this thing that tingles your toes will last forever,
just like the dog-eared book that first endorsed
such frightening and tantalising emotions.

Just like the song that made your heart sing,
and the cherished flower, pressed between the
pages of Slow Waltz Round Cedar Bend,
written by a man who knows all about love,
real love, and gives us reason to dream
when tears begin to fall.

JUST ONE DANCE

JUST ONE DANCE

She'd seen him of course,

danced around him, so to speak,

avoided him, definitely,

this man who represented risk,

excitement, but more than likely

trouble.

It would be okay,

so she thought,

as long as,

well, as long as he kept

his distance, he could look,

but no more.

A hundred reasons to steer clear

were bouncing round her head,

but she didn't account for

others, who threw them together,

made it impossible to leave

without one dance,

when the connection

became chemistry,

more dangerous and life destroying

than anything touched by naked flame,

sending her into free-spin,

clutching at a reason to escape.

A RANT

WHY IS IT THAT...


So the press have had to cough up, and not before time too.

No one can have failed to take an interest in the upsetting tale of what happened to Madeleine McCann. There is not a family in the land who wouldn't weep with joy if this pretty little girl was found alive. But what did happen to Madeleine? The problem is no one knows. And what does the press do if they don't know? They make it up.

Andrew Neil summed it up well today, saying it is the story of a little girl who simply vanished.
There is no answer to her demise so the story had legs, it was up and running, way, way too fast.

Everyone wants answers and the painful truth is there sometimes just aren't any.

What is important now is how the McCanns cope. They have two other beautiful children, who remember their big sister and must ask where she is. Imagine waking every morning with the thought of what happened to your little girl. Imagine trying to sleep every night not knowing the answer to this question.

We all have theories and most of them don't have a happy ending. I am personally not even convinced she was abducted. I still have this gut feeling she woke and wandered into the night, looking for her parents. Whatever the answer, it is time now for the family to have the courage to move on. If for no other reason than the welfare and happiness of their remaining children.

This doesn't mean that they have given up, for until a body is found, there is always a glimmer of hope, no matter how faint. But the reality is that ten years from now nothing may have changed. So let's all give this family a break and leave them alone. I just hope they have the courage to get on with the rest of their lives.

KENYA 2008

KENYA - 2008

Imagine the terror, the pain and the sight,

of a distraught mother fighting her plight,

they torched what they thought was a place to be safe,

and murdered her baby, the poor little waif.

She climbed out the window fleeing the heat,

cutting her arms and ripping her feet,

but evil was waiting and grabbed from her arms,

a terrified baby intending her harm.

With no conscience, feeling or stopping for breath,

they hurled a small innocent to meet certain death,

within an inferno started by them,

as she screamed a demented, last requiem.

She may breathe and look alive to those that don’t know,

but her life’s lost direction there’s nothing to show

her why this small innocent was ripped from her heart

there’s nothing to live for there’s nowhere to start.

What future can she have with memories like this?

Unable to sleep and deprived of the kiss

from the man that she loved, also lost in the fire,

so she stares into space near her life’s funeral pyre.

Simple Things

SIMPLE THINGS

Raindrops falling in puddles,

that first frosty breath

that makes you do it again.

The crinkle in your nose

when sub zero hits,

and there’s an excuse to wear

chocolate brown leather gloves

and a lime green scarf tied loosely.

A properly prepared latte that

glides down your throat

as you sit undisturbed with your

favourite magazine, knowing you can

sit there for five minutes or five hours,

the choice is yours.

Playing the CD you love

to have so loud it ricochets off

the leather interior you can afford.

Spending the money you

and you alone have earned.

Checking the balance that has

your name.

Reading in bed

listening to the wind

with the faint drone of the radio

playing the usual midnight rubbish,

that doesn’t seem to irritate any more.

Waking up every morning,

not really caring whether it rains or shines,

but knowing that whatever you do

is your decision.

Having two mornings in every week,

when you are not ruled by an alarm clock

as you stare out the bathroom window

at snow covered mountains, some will

only ever see in dreams.

BANG YANG

An orphan, a mother, a widow,

she sobs herself dry,

eyes searching the foliage,

waiting, wondering,

who and what will be next?

The jungle is her home,

the inhabitants her friends,

all grieving, all waiting,

all numb with disbelief

that their plight continues

in a modern age

when lots of help

was promised

but those that made

the promises slinked off

banished Bang Yang and

her comrades to a living hell.

Not for them

soft, downy pillows,

widescreen television

and full bodied wine

that resembles the

steady flow of blood

that seeps from weakened

betrayed, forgotten heroes.

MATILDA LAING

MATILDA LAING

Matilda dines alone

in a house full of dust

and memories washed down

with a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape.

Bonnie and Clyde sit under the table,

scratching their fleas and waiting for

a morsel to drop at their paws

before retreating to the ailing Aga

that doesn’t quite hold its fire.

They see off the disgruntled cat

who sprints the stairs and nestles in

the cosy airing cupboard that houses

fusty candlewicks that welcomed

new kittens into the world and carry

the stains.

After Coronations Street and Emmerdale

she treads the stairway of threadbare Axminster

overlooked by fearsome

ancestors regaled in splendour.

From her window she looks at the moon

and sighs, she hates being old, hates being alone

with her memories and a wardrobe full of

satin ball gowns with waspish waists.

She unclips a hair clasp and a tumble of silver hair

falls round her shoulders caressing her drooping breasts.

The waist is still visible, the tummy still taut

enough to fit the jodhpurs that lie over the chair

waiting for her attention tomorrow morning

when she rides up the meadow,

Bonnie and Clyde in pursuit,

until Heston snorts to a halt in Bluebell wood.

Edward Jackson stands smiling,

his tweed jacket with torn pockets

sports a battered rose in the lapel,

as he doffs his cap and holds out a caring hand to

his very own rose who slides from the saddle

and into his waiting arms,

ridiculously in love,

amazingly happy,

undoubtedly old.