Ridgewalk

I have walked the high places, seen

the haze in the glaciated

trough beneath my feet;

I have heard the raven’s croak

among tall crags, felt the winds

keen around my head. I have

trusted my life to a friend, sensed the

taut rope’s reassurance,

known the joy of balance

on the white path’s ribbon.

I have sensed the unseen God in

the fierce, dangerous joy, the

tension and the trust, and always,

always the wind of his breath

piling the tumultuous clouds,

sweeping the pale sky clear.

©C.M.M. 12/01

Arles: Feria du Riz

Photo ©Fraser Shiells, by permission

Sitting at lunch beneath the shade

we heard the gunfire - loud, sharp - 

and then the growing noise of cheers

above the music of the band

and rushed to line the barricade

between us and the road.

And what came next was troubling to

the me that thinks I’m civilised

as horses clattered in the dust

and lances waved and suddenly

I saw the bulls - small, dusty, black

and gone: a swiftness barely seen

as bodies swirled and young boys clawed

and darted in among the hooves

and grabbed and cheered and strutted there.

And my blood raced in sympathy

as small dogs yapped beside my legs

and all my civilised disdain

was pulverised and lay in dust.

C.M. 09/12

This was a fascinating, thrilling and ultimately disturbing experience - the more so because I had not anticipated the event. I'm grateful to my friend Fraser Shiells for his photo - the speed of everything made it hard to capture, and this moment, when one of the bulls escaped the corralling horses and headed back down the road on its own, was especially dramatic.

Night Piper

Photo ©Ewan McIntosh

Into a random dream, only half-remembered,

dances the noise of -

God, it’s pipes! And it’s

three am and I’ve been sleeping but

I leap from my bed and look 

out and there they are: a man, 

pipes shouldered, marching along

the sleeping crescent playing 

his heart out. And it’s not just the old

Scotland the Brave stuff but

an intricate shifting pattern of notes

and he’s good, good, but

far too loud for my wincing brain.

In front of this marching kilt 

five figures dance

yes, dance,

keeping time as they

make their way past the

dark houses which seem

like me not to have welcomed them

with lights, but they don’t care.

Light on their feet and lightly

rhythmic they pass on and the music sounds

more and more distant as the night 

folds back and sleep floods over

the vacant echoes of the town.

©C.M.M.

This happened on the only weekend of the year when such things are, in fact, normal - Cowal Games weekend. The poem actually suggested itself to me as I was drifting back to sleep, but I've taken almost a week to get round to putting it down.

MIners' Gala 1984

I’m riding on a lorry through

the Edinburgh streets. Beside

me is a missile, quite small,

made of cardboard painted

silver. Should be black.

Upturned faces in the sun

stare white; some shout:

Save oor pits, missus –

as if this missile

had the power to sweep away

the English government of the day

and blow it back to when

their fathers walked in

heavy boots, pale in the

morning sun and back,

black-faced at dusk

from hellish pits of endless toil

that now would end

and they would miss. And I

and my missile trundle on,

an incidental sideshow

in Thatcher’s Circus 84.

C.M.M 05/12

A sudden memory, triggered by local election talk and the despair of those who feel government cares little for them. This was certainly the case in 1984, the year of the Miners' Strike, after which the mining industry was never the same again. As CND activists we were seen as allies against the Thatcher government, though I felt strongly that in that situation we were merely demonstrating solidarity - for there was nothing we could do about it, any more than the miners whose families lined the Edinburgh streets on that sunny day.

The Garden

That night there was no

peace in the garden. The voice

beat randomly and wordless

on the shrinking sense as the flames

flickered irritably in the unseen chill.

The struggling prayer faltered

with each startling blow and

died as the God’s voice dwindled and

withdrew. And when the silence fell

blessedly and the night grew still

it was already over, this riven time,

and the marching feet, the harsher

shouts, the drawn steel glinting

in the dark – to this the prayer had led

and left the silence of the grave.

C.M.M. 04/12

Dali's Christ

 © Culture and Sport Glasgow (Museums)

There are no nails

no bonds or blood to mar

perfection. Instead, the figure hangs

beautiful above the flat sea

watched – or ignored – by anachronistic fishermen,

brooding over the water yet

soaring out to embrace

the viewer in the small space

dwarfed by the cosmos that is

the final resting of the crucified.

The humanity is complete,

the only agony visible in the twist

of the arms, the taut sculpture

of tormented shoulders,

but this is God who leaves behind

the tawdry superscription that would

seek to limit him,

this is God who reaches out as

crucifix to dying lips

as benediction to the world

as light into the darkened sky –

stop. Look up. Can you not

feel the wind?

C.M.M. 02/12

Dali's painting, Christ of St John of the Cross, hangs in the Kelvingrove Art Galleries in Glasgow. I grew up visiting it, and wrote this poem after my most recent visit, when I saw it in a fourth new setting. I am indebted to Glasgow Museums for permission to use the image.