Late November

I have always found the days at the end of November difficult to bear; the skies seem leaden and low, and the rain relentless. Many years ago I invented a mythical season called Alumbria: it lasted between the falling of the first horse chestnut and the first snowflake. Now we are right in the middle of Alumbria and, as ever, I find the days long and melancholic.

All that having been said, I find it a very rich time from the perspective of ideas and the imagination. I am almost completely surrounded by woodland here at the heart of Highland Perthshire in the very middle of the only land-locked part of Scotland. When I go for walks up behind my house, whatever time of day, it's as though the world has ended and no-one is left but me.

The paths are misty and still left with a last coppery gold from the melted leaves. All I see, if I'm quiet enough, are one or two or three roe deer leaping away on moss hooves into the grey silence of the trees. All I hear, if I am lucky, will be the scrawling voice of a jay. Otherwise, the silence is complete, and so is the mystery of the woods. Anything could happen.

It's this part of the world, and these places, that inspired my short story 'The Ice' which was nominated for a Pushcart in the States. The story tied together all my impressions of the woods and their secrets, and my own memories of secondary school and bullying here in Highland Perthshire. Very little of it feels invented. The story's to be found on Kindle.

Fetcham

Over recent days I have been down in London. I was there first and foremost to give a reading for the charity Kids for Kids. They help struggling villages in the Darfur region to support themselves; each year they adopt more and more communities. The reading was what I like to call an inter-melding of music and words: I was joined by a professional violinist and pianist and our performance was at Leatherhead School.

Over the days I stayed with friends in Fetcham close to Leatherhead. During the time that I was there Bonfire Night was celebrated. Where I live at the heart of Highland Perthshire not much is made of this; traditionally Hallowe'en has been of far greater importance, though during recent years that has been changing. Of course both are equally exciting to children.

The other thing I'm not used to here in Highland Perthshire is the fox. That may sound almost extraordinary; I am surrounded by high hills, glens and open fields - it's country that was almost tailor-made for foxes. But the estates have a ruthless grip on the population; I've very seldom seen a red-coated gentleman in all the years I've lived here. Paradoxically enough, they're two a penny in the London area.

This poem was written through the night. I was roused out of sleep by a fox; by the barking of a fox that continued for perhaps five minutes. During that time the first draft of the poem was written. It's the best possible time to write: you're unselfconscious about the process, and somehow the words are able to flow more freely. This is dedicated to Sylvia and Richard, my good hosts over my days in England.

Fetcham

November 5th and the whole night huge;
I woke and a fox's voice was rasping
over the gardens and the sculpted woods,
at two in the morning and the world asleep.

That night the skies had bloomed with fireworks,
burst and fluttered till they fell back dark;
the parties over and the lights put out,
the doors all clicked and the streets left still.

When I woke up the night was full,
a silver brilliance with the moon's ship high;
the great sky shining and the stars red fires,
and the rasp and the rasp of a fox's bark.

The Wind and the Moon

It's a few years now since I wrote my poem 'The Wind and the Moon'. I had been working all day in a primary school here in Perthshire at the heart of Scotland. It was a quintessential autumn day: the wind was scurrying about the country classrooms and the children were as high as kites. On the way back to Dunkeld and my house beside the Cathedral, I asked the head teacher what made her pupils wildest. Without a moment's hesitation she said: 'The wind and the moon'. Later that day I scribbled the first draft of a poem about my own memories of autumn and hunting for horse chestnuts. And in the end it simply had to have the title 'The Wind and the Moon'.
The poem's to be found in my collection of selected work 'Second Nature' on Kindle; it's also in my volume of collected poems 'Island' from Amazon.

The wind woke me, the loud howl of it
Boomed round the house and I felt at sea;
I fastened my eyes and was out in a ship,
Ten miles of Atlantic. I went to the window,
Watched the whole round of the moon
Ploughing through clouds, a coin
Of silver and gold.

All night I was blown between dreams,
Never slept deep, was thinking
Of the trees crashing and rising with wind,
Of the chestnut rain that would fall
By the morning.

At dawn I woke up, went out
Into the bright blue whirl of the wind,
Rode the wild horse of it upwards
Into the wood and beyond,
To the hill with the chestnut trees,
The leaves dancing at my feet,
Russet and gold.

I ran and ran till my chest
Hurt with my heart. Under the hands of the chestnuts
That waved and swung in the air,
Saddles of leather, polished and shining,
Broken from the beds of their shells -
A whole hoard.

I went home in a gust of light
My pockets and hands
Knobbled with conkers.