Under Silver Stars

As we lay still one night
Drawing our breath in shallow draughts
Watching silver blue corn sway
Silken as quiet moonlight,
Arc into slowly falling arrows
In the bower of a sloping field
That led down to the riverside
And on, toward the moon blown tide.
Behind us, a broken pathway
Wandering cracks in a shining sea
To where, pleasure taken,
Our tender stain lay amid the fallen seed
Of wild strawberries and grain
Until the drowsy drizzling dawn
When poppies turn back to red

They never call it dead of night,
These lovers,
Breathless from living
Still, silent and spent
It being too long
And passing too slowly for them
It is the time of gathering souls
At their lowest ebb
When this deep line of darkness falls upon us
As it sweeps the world like a scythe

In torch-lit procession
We walk by river
Intrude upon its gloom
And ripple its ever-present twilight
A pewter veil flowing
Into a molten heart
Beating this water
Against a turning world
To regain its balance
In a futile search for equilibrium
Pouring silver over moonstone
Seen through flame
Lit by embers and bark
Something caught in amber
Something dead but held forever
Rippling in the dark

In the mystery of circles
They are endless,
Infinite
And relentless
Love and death
Walk in circles
Silver rings, moonlight, halos,
Spinning stars in perpetual, rippling orbit
Map our heaven
Like seed between wild darkness
Where imagination dreams
And fears appear and disappear
In silver, red and black
As we repeat words
Before we close our eyes
To keep us safe
From seed to scythe...

At worst this night is only dark
And darkness only silent
And if in silence there's nothing to fear
Then listening doesn't explain
Why tonight is so unbearable

Sleep is but a little death
Given a warm hand
And a low breath
These lovers will not sleep
Nor part, under this flag of love
Banded silver, black and red
Their sea, silver blue
Their land, moonlit silver
Awash with the black flowers of the moon
And the estuary,
A spoon dipped in salt,
Clings to the long and low-lying sand
Where gulls and lost ships cry
For land and the years beyond their reach
Where a weak attraction draws them ever closer
Since no other force endures
To repel them from this shore

This is the old tide
Washed up and wide as moonlight
This is the pathway
And the orbit we hold
The sweep of the scythe
O’er the blood black poppy field
Ripples chasing whispers
Rumours in the rye
The silver blue corn bows
Where life yields and shadows lie

© Tom Fairnie winter 2005


Billy Bones

Wi shooders like braes
Under a crag face
A nose like an avalanche
And a St Bernard’s jowls
He had the look o’ a man
Wi his ain gravitational pull
Draggin’ him doon and roond
In a millstane whirl
As quick as sand grinding porridge

His predilection wis to gloom
If he wis a game he’d be Doom
Or something in a tomb
Bit withoot aw the runnin’ aroond
He’d be stuck in the Chamber o’ Sittin’ Doon
His weathered brow was beaten,
He wis dog eared, worn oot and seik
Looking like he’d jist been pulled
Fae a natural disaster
His disheveled claes
Were like charity shop chic;
Only they wurnie
His dearest possession
Wis a second-hand jaikit
A purloined Burberry

He’d goat himself kicked oot o’ The Central Bar
For drinking that many pints o’ freezing cauld Guinness
He wis causin’ a draft
And he found himself ootside
Slowly spinning to a stop
Facing uphill and longing for the inviting arms
O’ The Guilford’s revolving door
Turning his thoughts to the way it would greet ye
Wi’ an encouraging pat oan the back
An auld friend, aye welcome, dinnae fash
Only tae cast ye oot into the cauld
O’ a porter black night
Jist cause ye’d run oot o’ cash
He considered yon half empty moon
Revolving ower the top o’ Leith Walk
But it was so far above him
And he was so far doon
Then his nostrils flared
Like a pit pony remembering meadow grass
As he caught the scent of salt and sauce
That roused his passion for a dear place
Where he could stare into the deep like a fat friar
Contemplating the spiritual journey of his battered soul
Where the silkie and the kraken
And the polis sirens beckoned
Like Captain Ahab
Legless and determined to have a big bit o’ fish

Then later, through the teeming rain
O’ a typical clouds night oot
Terminally cauld and soaked tae the skin
Loomin’ ower the Water o’ Leith
That stirred like a lager foam wreath
Beneath him
He contemplated this final act
And wondered if he could be any wetter
If he were pickled in a barrel o’ brine
Like Nelson in his brandy
A monumentally frozen stiff
Drenched in Leith’s ironic sunshine

He thought about death and damnation
About caskets and cremation
Even cryogenic preservation
Where he could postpone his ain funeral indefinitely
And pay for it on the never-never forever
And he wondered if a salt sea drowned man died thirsty
Damned tae drink from the Lethe river
Tae forget how he came to be fu’ o’ water yet parched for all eternity
And how they might undertake tae wring him oot
Before consigning him to Hades.

Maybe they wid just tumble him dry
In the steamie side o’ hell
He imagined that it would be the drier
They could aye stick a few shirts in as well

And Leith had no Dominion
Jist an auld Eldorado
But he was gled tae dae it here
In the northern hemisphere
‘cause droonin’ doon under
Wi’ aw that counter-clockwise spinnin’
Wid jist make ye giddy
And that didnae sound sae guid tae him
And made him think
That death and the Coriolis Effect
Have baith goat a proper time and place
So tae speak;
‘cause efter aw’
He jist wanted tae droon
He didnae want tae make himself seik

He had a droonin’ man’s sense o’ direction
A blind man’s lost face
And in that final shrug o’ his shooders
He had a drunk man’s grace
And sank below the foam
Like a depth charge
‘til at the very last
He thought he could taste
Vinegar and salt
In a mix of holy symbols
The Water o’ Leith
His thrown-in chips
And Grimbles

© Tom Fairnie summer 2005


Bed-knobs and bonfires

We used to burn our old mattresses
On ritual bonfires in the back green
Lying like foundation stones
Somewhere in-between
Sweet Williams and Pee the Beds
The fragrant and the unclean
As we collected from the neighbours
It would build, and every day keep gaining
Wardrobes full of woodworm
And beds full of staining
Until it stood; a temple to Morpheus
And inadequate toilet training
Like an anti-Antiques Roadshow
Of wet beds and household debris
Given a Viking funeral
That fired our imagination and we
Fought like Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis
Fencing with chair legs over some wee Janet Leigh
But no matter how much was cremated
Consigned to the flames
There amongst the ashes like petrified snakes
The bedsprings remained
As hard as pawnbroker’s balls
A symbol of poverty, guilt and shame
We were always having bonfires
And playing with matches
Life was a fascinating combination
Of combustible material and damp patches
The endless struggle between light and dark
Fiery-haired Rita and the black shirted fascists
It was one long night
Of fireworks, fire-cans and come in for your tea
Lit by the smiling face
Of a candle in a tumshie
And a tattie in the dying embers
Was a funeral feast for free
Turning like Saint Catherine’s wheel
Burning like Saint Joan
We lit a volcano to Vulcan
And worshipped at Pele’s fiery throne
With gunpowder from China and candles from Rome
We had a pyromythology all of our own
It’s a wonder I survived at all
Through that baptism of fire
A miner’s son forged in the flames
Of his father’s desire
And my mother’s burning passion
Which he’d light and then retire
But through all those flaming years
Through every flicker and twist
Burning down the days
The memories persist
Of how I always wanted to be a fireman
I just grew up an arsonist.

Bedknobs And Bonfires © Tom Fairnie 2001


In The Cathedral

In the cathedral today I saw a man
Who looked a little like St Paul
Defacing a Corinthian column
Writing letters full of vitriol
It was the first time I had seen him
I suppose one of us was itinerant
Only in, out of the rain.
He looked burnt and belligerent
Like a tramp or a hawker king
Off the road, an old Wandering Jew
Transfigured into a church elder
Half hidden here in the face of God
Like me; but probably not you
Stood behind a rood screen
Whispering a half truth
The other half obscene
It was font water clear
That this one angry man’s epistle
Was between himself and his God
More Golem than gospel
Mostly venom and spittle
Reading unintelligible verses
To an invisible creator
A mad makar and his maker
Then, ranting for all he was worth
A crescendo of abuse
Cried from the darkness and the heart
The words broken into lies
Reverberating and abstruse
Perhaps proud to be remembered
As the most false prophet
An immodest epitaph awaiting
The end of his life
To make sense of it all
A high and vaulted ambition
Though vanity never looked worse
It had certainly let itself go
And it never used to curse
Or use the name in vain
Here where bells and hands are wrung
Out on the Epistle Side
In this designer house of God
Where the great architect
With a nod to Wren
Has the last word
A beggar calls for silence
Or a sign of the cross
The I made mute
Now turning to the sinister
Difficult to get a bearing
On such an omnipresent minister
Believing, amidst all the good books and letters,
That there must be one from a poison pen
To give his passionate play on words,
His twisted reason; clarity
Willing to give everything to understand
Why the greatest of them is charity
I thought I recognised him
And I would have given him the benefit of the doubt
But I was wrong; it wasn’t him at all
He only looked a little like St Paul

In The Cathedral © Tom Fairnie 9th June 2007


There’ll always be bairns

There’ll always be bairns in the street
They’ll always be kicking a ba’
They’ll always get a tellin’ oaf
Always fae there maw
They’ll always be in a parade
Wearing a cardboard box
Wi a name like
Robbie the Robot or R2D2
And they’ll always hiv to be coaxed
They’ll always be cheeky wee beggars
Always smoke
Always throw bangers at cats
Always jist hivin' a joke
They’ll always make a noise at the pictures
And kick yer seat oan the bus
And they’ll always get ye mair annoyed
If ye dare tae make a fuss
They’ll always make a face in the school photie
They’ll always pick a fight
And get some wee guy intae trouble
And treat him like shite
They’ll always be the loudest
And take up maist o’ the teacher's time
They’ll always be setting fires
And intae petty crime
They’ll always ken mair aboot sex
And mair aboot drugs
They’ll always be stealin' something
And always baitin' dugs
They’ll always get in tae trouble
And yin o’ them will always get knocked doon
They’ll never learn their lesson
And they’ll always be aroond
They’ll always be aroond
They’ll never go away
They’re ootside in ma gairden
Like there’s naewhere else tae play
There’s nae cure for bairns
Time disnae heal a thing
The wee mites are mair like germs
Their intae awthing
They’ll never be any better
They’ll probably get a lot worse
They’re supposed tae be a blessing
Bit jist make ye want tae curse
‘cause they’ll always bite their nails
Never wash and always smell
Bit then, who am a tae talk
A wis a bairn once ma’sel

There’ll Always be bairns © Tom Fairnie 2007


Becoming eternal

It’s October and colder
the years are another year older
this fundamental love,
becoming eternal.
romantic, wild and unafraid,
autumn leaving summer
facing winter
bright and shadowless
like a full moon
late in a dark October sky,
like passionate lovers dressing afterwards
in a moonlit room
their love surrounded by that light
clear and bright and becoming eternal

© Tom Fairnie winter 1976


Man Wis Made Tae Girn

Ah wis made in Scotland like maist o’ youse
From McGowans toffee and penny chews
And if ye are what ye eat then ah canny hide
Ah'm mainly Lorne sausage and Mothers Pride
But it would be a sin an ah’d wish masel died
If you thought a wisnae a true scot but jist a half-breid

© Tom Fairnie summer 2004


remembering Venice

remembering Venice
is like remembering love
that opaque city
remembered
unrendered,
without form,
is lost in waves and beauty
yet it stays with you
like a constant
heartbeat
remembering Venice
is like remembering rain
surrounding you
making you just another part
of something vast and falling…
like love

Do you remember the rain in Venice?
Do you remember running into its heart
and being swept along in its beating?


© Tom Fairnie autumn 1997


In every expectant moment

In every expectant moment
before I see you
I rehearse the words
like a humble man struggling with a good deed
like a vain man with his last look

I’m swallowed up in the waiting
Sometimes it’s just too profound a feeling
of anticipation
it becomes an undertow and threatens my balance,
my equilibrium

I’m waiting at this very moment
waiting as I write
and waiting as you read
waiting through every long expectant moment
until I see you
and then I know what takes my breath away.
It’s not the undertow,
not the falling in
nor the fear of falling out,
it’s only seeing you
just seeing you.

© Tom Fairnie winter 1976


The Flood

Like any other ocean
This one has it's end
It ends in God's mouth
As a word he once used
All this was a mistake
All this torturously deep dark waste of water
Below the light

A mistake.
A slip of God's tongue.

© Tom Fairnie spring 2000


One night while you were sleeping

One night while you were sleeping
I kissed your love awake
And held you tight
In the grip of love
In a hold no one could break
And in the time between us kissing first
And kissing a last goodnight
We held and touched
And embraced it all
All the love in the world that night.

© Tom Fairnie winter 1978


The Door-to-door Campaigner

Her politics were transparent
She had a mandate
To raise a man’s opinion
Of her liberal ways
I was her primary target
The floating voter
She wished to swing
From right to left
She held my gaze
With her manifesto
And her persuasive sway
She was somewhat left of centre
Like a misplaced cross
Spoiling my paper
One more deposit lost
Swept along on her tide of promises
I had given her my vote
Then she was gone
Like a straw poll in the wind
And I, cast adrift,
No longer undecided
Now committed to her list

© Tom Fairnie winter 2004


Christmas present

A gave masel’ a present...
An’ switched oan the other bar
An’ poured masel’ a double
O’ another man’s Vladivar
No one else would buy a gift
Or drink tae this auld miser’s health
So a just return the favour
An’ keep aw theirs tae masel’
I unwrap what I would have given,
I save the ribbon and the paper;
Fur last night’s news
Is something ye should savour
Revealing coins in pearls o’ wisdom
That shine like yon Eastern star
A’m fair lavish wi ma gifts
When a ken there no gaun far
But the yin I love the best
The yin a leave tae last
Is ma bank book fu o’ numbers
The sums o’ aw ma past
An’ wi every year that passes
It flatters to deceive
For a seem tae get mair than twice the pleasure
As a give and receive
An’ every year there’s mair
Ma generosity knows no bounds
aw that money I hav’nae spent
Ach well, it’s the thoucht that counts


© Tom Fairnie 2003


What it is

No one is black
And no one is white
Save an albino
And an albino at night

A nose isn’t Roman
And it isn’t a Jew’s
You take what you get
You can’t pick and choose

Dirt isn’t different
Because of a map
And territorial waters
Tend to overlap

So let’s not be pedants
It’s only a name
Be it bigot or xenophobe
We’re all just the same

© Tom Fairnie 2005