Melkur
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Honeycomb
I remember a grey Monday, growing up in granite Aberdeen. I came down to breakfast in my school jersey, grey and thick as porridge, to open a tub of...
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- 870 reads
In the Bleak Midwinter
This is a group portrait. Captain Oates, reindeer gloves, ski pole, thousand-yard stare into camera. An expert in horseflesh, born in India. He told...
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- 1103 reads
Night
‘Not long now, old lady,’ Hamish Iain said aloud, hard to make out in the rising screech of dying machinery. There was no-one else alive to hear him...
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- 1217 reads
Frost: a Mystery Play
Frost reigned for a while, Breathing its chilly cobwebs Slow across the ground Sounding a crick-crack, A slow-freezing testament For those ears who...
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- 1971 reads
Portrait of the Bees in Tain
The ranks of snoring sisters, sleeping in Their hives, vibrating in the dark, lit by The black and yellow of their stings, so thin Fallen with the...
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- 947 reads