Wigtown Prize Winner | Julie Laing, Calving
Wigtown Prize Runner Up | William Hershaw
Gaelic Prize Winner | Martin MacIntyre, Dithis Bhoireannach air Trèan
Gaelic Prize Runner Up | Rody Gorman
Scots Prize Winner | Irene Howat, The Lintie
Scots Prize Runner Up | Joan Fraser
Fresh Voice Award Winner | Andrew Murray
Fresh Voice Award Runner Up | Gwen Dupre
Alastair Reid Pamphlet Prize Winner | Sarah Leavesley, Rain Falling
Alastair Reid Pamphlet Prize Runner Up | Bridget Khursheed
CALVING
Satellites see – for years – the l e n g t h e n i n g c r a c k
but can’t describe
the crashing b
i
r
t
h
o
f
ice
shelf-calf
A68.
After rifting from the mother, the trillion tonne 93 mile long
newborn baby-berg drifts and humpbacks
stitch its milk-blue fringe for tourists.
For 930 miles and four years it points
its index finger at the sky
and space sentinels update us on its status.
A68 has split into
A68a & A68b
(calf-mother) (berg-calf)
and the finger broken from A68d
(berg-calf) A68e
is known now as (berg-calf)
Even after the birth of
A68m
(the last chip big enough for bergness)
the herd coheres as slushy-fissured diaspora,
for longer than expected.
Then – very suddenly overnight –
A68a
just fragments
into millions
of
little tiny
moos and d i
s
a p
p e s
a r
Dithis Bhoireannach air Trèan
’S ann ga h-ithe far a’ chnàimh a tha sibh –
am boireannach òg blasta a tha
na seasamh mur coinneamh,
is a bheir dhuibh a h-aodann
a gàire is a dlùth-èisteachd
is a labhras ribhse
a cheart cho saidhbhir, siùbhlach, sùghmhòr
mu bhrìgh na beatha (dè eile a th’ ann?)
is a thogas a com
is a chuireas a lamhan
an tacs’ a cruaichnean
dìreach mar a nì sibhse
is a dhraghas an fheadhainn agaibhse thuice
na gnogadh-cinn
na sgaoileadh bhilean
na tuigse air ur cor
a dh’ aindeoin nam bliadhnaichean eadaraibh
’s nach b’ aithne dhuibh idir a chèile gu seo,
’s gun dealaich sibh, math dh’ fhaodte gu bràth
an Girona no ’m Barcelona.
’S beag an t-iongnadh gum feum sibh
na gheibh sibh dhith ithe an-dràsta:
ise ‘menù’ ur latha, ma-tà
cha sàsaichear a-nist sibh
gum bi mìlsead na ‘postre’ – canaidh sinn Flan Catalán –
agaibh air bàrr truimead is fallaineachd is spiosrachd a ‘plato’:
a cridhe mar rionnaig òig le a saoghal roimhpe
mar a th’ aig an nighinn agaibh fhèin,
is o nam b’ urrainn dhuibh dìreach tachairt rithese
gun fhiosta air trèan
is a h-ithe le gaol
mar a leigeas an tè shaor chàilear seo leibh gun strì.
You really are eating her off the bone –
the young tasty woman
standing opposite
who gives you her face
her laugh, her attentive listening
and who talks to you
just as richly, fluidly, juicy-ly
about the meaning of life (what else is there?)
and who raises her breasts
and places her hands on her hips
just like you do,
draws yours to her
in her nodding
her widening lips
her understanding of your being
despite the years between you
and that you’d never met before now
and you’ll part, forever, perhaps
in Girona or Barcelona.
Little wonder you must eat
what you can of her now
she is the ‘menù’ of your day,
you will not now be satisfied until you’ve savoured
the sweetness of the ‘postre’– lets say Flan Catalán –
on top of the richness and healthiness and spicy-ness of her ‘plato'
her heart as a young woman with her life ahead of her;
just as your own daughter does,
and oh, if only you could meet her, by chance on a train,
eat her with love, as this delicious woman freely allows you to do.
The Lintie
The chaptane’s cahute wis mahogany wuid
thit leamed in the eelie’s licht
bit the licht o’s bourie, the chaptane kent,
wis is wee green lintie.
They wur buckelt wi’ae hesp, man an burd
for the mair the swaws sweelt
the mair the burd fuffert is feathers an sang.
Wi a rowin sea an a whurplin burd
the chaptane wis codgie.
Yin nicht is the veshel wis nearhaun a stack
a scowe lik neffer afore
skelpit er starn, nar cowpit er ower,
burlin er roon an thrawin er doon.
Oor efter oor the tarry breeks focht
wi the stack an the boat in a radgy birl.
Fur oor efter oor the wun did its warst
wi the wun an the sea in a skirl.
The chaptane hid hiself wupped tae the mast
e wid neffer gie ower is chairge.
Frae thair he spied muckle sclitherin heichs
an the lang sclim up thair sclenters,
than the veshel’s shidderin seekenin fa
doon intae the howes atween.
Frae thair he hearkened the skraich o the wun
an the screeve o smatterin timmers;
frae thair e spied the stack abin
an the wrack o is boat ablo.
Is hinnermaist sicht
oan thit frichtsome nicht
wis a glent o green,
an is hinnermaist soon
is the sea sooked im doon
wis a lintie.
THE CURSE
That simmer’s day the king’s dragoons hung three men
fae the gibbets fur no renouncin their hatred o bishops,
an twae Mairgarets wur mairtyred tae the ocean – fixit ticht tae stakes tae droon as the tide rose abune the bay o Wigtown.
They were aw merkit oot as malaperts, troublemakers whae listent tae meenisters preach frae beneath their blankets in amang the hills o Gallowa’,
Loth even in the face o daith itsel tae stoap bein the foot sodgers o god: freedom fechters railin against Episcopalianism
Mairgaret Maclauchlan an Mairgaret Wilson wir laid oot on the mudflats at Bladnoch, clingin oan tae their crates like crabs.
Yin o them sang hymns but the sat watter dried them in her mooth. An offecial pullt her heid up, giein hur a last chance tae recant her creed but she speired insteed
fur a gless o watter.
There’s plenty o watter there fur ye, said he, an pushed her back unner.
It’s said he’d a son, whae was born wi webbed feet.
Luckin fittit his hale life, he wuz, an aye thirsty forby.
Right before the very beginning/end, a rain-
drop falling like a skipped heartbeat, strained
through the clouds’ muslin. The sky’s lake
was still clean, wide & unswum,
though I dreamed of gliding across
without leaving a trace: no foot-
print, no clinging mist breath, no
carbon stain. A flow of atoms,
shape-shifting with the air &
world around me. I believed in wings
of light, feathers of snow, unmelted
by climate crisis, ice as saving
angel, sculpted by the landscape
– its hungers, thirsts, needs.
Need’s thirsts – its hungers – landscape the angel
sculpted by saving as ice, by climate. Crisis
unmelted: snow of light, feat-
hers of wings. In believed
world around me, I & air, the
with-shape shifting atoms
of flow. A carbon. Stain no breath
mist-print, no clinging foot –
no trace. A without leaving, across
gliding of though… I dreamed, un-
swum & wide, was still clean.
Lake sky’s the muslin through
the clouds’ strained heart-
beat, skipped, a like falling. Drop rain
a end beginning. Very the before: right/write.
After the earth
heard thunder,
leaves held out their
tongues, the hedgerow
bindweed’s white mouths
brimmed with bowlfuls
of pure recycled river. May
blossom turned these to fonts
for the blessing of loosed
petals, butterflies, bees
& other insects. Birds sang
with warm wet freshness,
beaks open and uplifted,
feathers glistening. A shine
lingered on every storm-
struck surface, glossed
by sun & water, slick with equilibrium, scents
of rich peat, valley grass & purple-heathered
moorlands. Walking was a way of living we didn’t
weigh in heavy breaths
or heavy hearts. Our lungs
were still trees, our pulse
& motion paced by steady
ground beneath, not
the swish of fins & tails, flit
of water past us, slit of gills too narrow
to sustain our need for oxygen or mass survival.
In the early days, hills
became hallowed
spaces: high
peaks, white
with angel
snow. Like tips
of broken
wings set
sideways
& rooted into
rock – staked
as jagged
boundary
between
unbalanced
elements.
Water ruled
more gently
than now.
Pools of once
blue or silver
streaked green
& stagnant:
swamping,
submerging,
displacing.
We moved with
the weather,
to cool our skin
& dry our feet.
Next-door planted tarmac, paving slabs
& cars, brick walls & conservatory
glass. The light that swam
through slowly sank fast.
Cobwebs caught shadow
fish & dead leaves. As for
our drive: moss -grouted
red stone, oil- stained.
Paler where our metal
beasts lay, parked long
enough to leave a mark,
but out too often to make
a real difference. Nothing
grew from the under-
belly of our thunder-
makers except rust & wild
words that burgeoned or thorned
in loud recrimination. Fumes
fogged everything. We
dream sometimes of our
range of mountains viewed
from a distance of miles
& millennia – the
slopes like old hands
clasped in prayer. An
angel-call set against
skies that no longer
silhouette clear answers.
Flooding is an arc with no meniscus, no rim, only over-
spill. We miraged other worlds that might rise above the
ocean waves, even as our birth Earth was sinking. Surf
frothed like spilt milk, not
lace-pretty. Our under-
water cities are more
whale-carcass than
shell-domed. This
planet is a listing
ship: the West
African Black Rhino-
ceros/Baiji White Dolphin/
Pyrenean Ibex/ Passenger
Pigeon/ Tasmanian Tiger/Steller’s Sea
Cow/Great Auk/Dodo/Woolly Mammoth
/Sabre-toothed Cat… then the Columbia
Spotted Frog/ Staghorn
Coral/American Pika/
Adélie Penguin/ Leathe-
rback Sea Turtle/
Koala/Atlantic
Cod/Monarch
Butterfly/Ringed
Seal/Polar Bear.*
Our tears taste
saltier now than
the sea that we’ve
had to settle with or drown in.
* 10 animals already extinct, followed by 10 threatened by climate change (https://onekindplanet.org/ 2020).
An amber star
edged with black
once rested in my
palm. The Spiny Orb-
Weaver Spider had legs
as delicately jointed as a
series of embroidered
silk stitches, & tiny
goggled eyes, shimmering.
Viewed from underneath,
its body was like a silver-
soldered electrode. Made to
weave threads from thin
air to command a web’s
complex circuitry. Later, we’d
try to emulate its mastery
of connection, its acrobatics &
aerial-home spinning. This small creature was already
trapped & set in resin, then encased behind museum glass
miles away from lush
green leaves & vibrant
flowers. Miles away from
lost tropics & rain-
forests. How we envied,
emulated & endangered things we
didn’t understand. We kept our eyes goggled,
as if this would protect us from reality’s over-shimmering.
Larks are what I want
to wake to, a glimmer
of humming
birds, even
a robin, rosy
breasted &
full-throated.
A world set
in harm-
ony, with
the gentle
yolk of an
unbreakable
sun.
I never
knew the
dodo’s
squeal or
the mythic
melody
of a Stephens
Island wren.
When the turtle
dove stopped calling,
its absent song
slipped as lightly
as silk from flesh, softly as a feather
brushed against glass… Yet, now I rise, goose-like,
to this startling quiet, their ghosts shiver through. My
skin pimples, like the plucked birds that no longer exist.
Light that was still
naturally sourced
soon topped the
ratings for big-
gest night-
time scar-
city. Poets
killed the
moon first;
they didn’t
mean to,
but they
did – swal-
lowed it
whole as if
knocking back
a giant
sleeping pill.
The world’s
darkness
grew deep-
er. Conste- llations
flickered. The
steadiest stars
were bart- ered for
love & laugh- ter. Stock-
piled, the rest became a
cosmic commodity that few could afford. With-
out a moon left for folks to whisper to, therapists
charged a fortune for listening & nodding. Prices rose.*
* Sympathetic sighs cost extra. The Zodiac index crashed live on Bloomberg. The coffin-nail diagnosis was instant, but fatal.
Introspection/Internment
/Inhumation:
Life trickles
faster &
quieter than
water through
cracks in split
rock. Its
wetness
shimmers,
willing
warm mouths
to drink.
Yet all I see
is the flash
of cold
steel
prising apart
my ribs to
reveal
nothing
but a poly-
styrened
heart &
two gusting
plastic bags:
a lungless, breath-
less skeleton of waste.
Neolithic man learned to farm. Crops of wheat,
millet & spelt. Figs too. They kept dogs, sheep
& goats, set up sea- sonal settle-
ments. Circular mud- brick
homes. The slow arts of massaging
earth into fertility, clay in- to make-
shift pots & spoons, using what they
had around them, choosing
how to seed & encourage growth.
Stone walls against floods, raids &
straying animals. No pets, just
walking food. Tribal living. Survival.
Was early cultivation easier or
harder than foraging & hunting?
Neolithic: new stone. Anthrop- ocene:
defined by humans. My sons ache with
each day’s strain. I recall my childhood
attempts at caring for a small
cluster of lithops – living stones.
These succulent plants thrive in arid
soil, requiring only sun & rare watering.
All five drowned within a month.
Letters have always been my only
crop, words my building blocks.*
*How weakly they stand against this climate.
Gists remain. Sometimes,
an essence. More often, part-stories with-
out conclusions. Scavenged bones that even
crows can't bear to feed off.
We etch our life tales into slices
of pulped wood, cave rock,
light pixels, strings
of zeroes & ones.
The landscape
shapes around us.
Generations later,
no one can easily
read this in a way
that makes sense.
These days I try to
carry my presence with less force & lighter footsteps. I write
rarely, always sign off with a sorry. Gists tie an essence of
stories, scavenged. Bone
crows feed, slices
pulped. Rock light
strings zeroes. Land apes.
Read away sense. Days carry
less. Footsteps write, sign off.
A sorry gist essences
scavenged bone. Crows slice.
Light strings. Apes read. Days carry. Footsteps
sign. Sorry gist scavenged, bone crows slice
light. Strings ape. Days footstep, sign
sorry. Gist crows slice.
Telephone: 01988 402 036