The scent of pine needles after autumn rain — lots of it — fills my nostrils. A mist hangs low over the River Tay and I am standing on Telford’s bridge which joins the Perthshire villages of Birnam and Dunkeld. Dunkeld, in particular, is a special place for me as my parents brought me here summer after summer for holidays when I was a teenager. My imagination ignited here by the streams and forests around the village. Often, on mornings like this…

Earlier this year I got news that I was to receive a Cholmondeley Award from the Society of Authors for my contribution to poetry to date. It was totally unexpected and a nice ‘tap on the shoulder’ for over thirty years of work…

Iggleheim’s Ark is a cautionary fable written in the tradition of tales such as those of Aesop and La Fontaine. It tells the story — intermittently — of Count von Iggleheim who read a prediction that the world would be engulfed by a limitless flood on 20th February, 1524…

Once, there was a bird that did not want to be a letter. / It threw shapes in trees, on walls, / chirruped of flight, sunlight beyond / the bestiary of any alphabet. / A bird that did not change / its meaning when faced / with east or west…

Muhammed texts me on Scruff from Alexandria. / I mention Cavafy and he asks me when I’ll visit. / I think of Egypt, Shakespeare. Never, I reply, / It’s too far. Then I clock he means the one / in West Dunbartonshire and blush…

When Alexander (Sandy) Hutchison died in 2015 there was an understandable outpouring of grief and affection for a Scottish poet who — despite his long career — was only just beginning to become more widely known. Friends and colleagues have been working over the past few years to gather his work together to try to establish his reputation more firmly. In anticipation of those future publications I republish here an essay I wrote back in 2007 for Duncan Glen’s little magazine Zed20.

“Since the start of the pandemic I have often found myself waking in the morning, groggy from sleep, and then experiencing a distinct sense of deflation as I suddenly remember the full awfulness of our situation and prepare to start the day. I’m sure I’m not alone in this. A day of risk lies ahead…”

Over the past few years I’ve tried my hand at writing a short play. It’s called ‘Esther’ and is a monologue that features the Renaissance Scottish calligrapher, Esther Inglis (1571-1624)…

A new poem, 'Welcome wanderer', has just appeared on the WRITE where we are NOW website

‘…grace to you/and peace from God our Father. Now look here://Adam could have said ‘no thanks’ or ‘apples/disagree with me’. He didn’t. He had a bite/as well...’

‘Once, the great statues lined the silk road./Their names were ‘goddess’, ‘lion’, ‘funerary/weeping girl’, ‘merchant with beard like an abacus’…’

‘… I read the sadness of pure/loss as it floods his face —/although I cannot see it./The still terror and yet/the acceptance of that/terror in the silent morning/bed before light and/movement…’