Advent

Today the snow arrived in earnest. The village of Dunkeld, encircled by its hills, was slowly turned white and silent by thick flakes driving out of the west. For some reason I thought in the evening of Iona, that spiritual home off the west coast of Scotland, which from childhood has been somehow my purest home. I know that will sound contrived, but it's the truth. I remember that about the age of four or five I started having strange and vivid dreams of the island, recurring dreams that haunted me and do to this day. And when I'm back now, when I'm on my own and walking against the wind into the west, I'm not an adult any more - I'm no age at all. I'm just myself, the self I was meant to be. All that foolish, false layer that we wrap ourselves in is taken away. I feel myself again, and whole.

But I haven't been to Iona this year: not once. Normally I run a writing course there in the autumn at one of the hotels, but not this year. And so I'm missing it, because it's too far removed from the mainland to visit at a whim. Getting to Iona, even from inland Scotland, is something of a pilgrimage in itself. And that is good, except when, like now, I yearn to be there even for a few hours.

Here is one of the poems I included in my book 'Iona, the other island'. It's about a real stone that I found not long ago on St Columba's Bay at the very south end, one of the precious green stones that are translucent and polish into marbles of light. It seemed appropriate for the first Sunday in Advent.


A little cave of green stone,
smoothed by centuries of sea
to a pebble small as a pinkie nail -
chanced up out of the waves' reach.

Hold it to light and it changes,
becomes a globe of fractures -
a cavern of ledges and glinting,
not one green but many at once.

And suddenly I think of it bigger,
as the whole of the human heart;
carrying the cuts of its journey -
brokenness letting in light.


'Iona, the other island' is published by Saint Andrew Press

Willow

Tomorrow I will set off for Stuttgart in the south-west of Germany. It's there that my four and a half year old daughter Willow lives with her mother. The pain of the last three years - separation and all the bitterness of divorce - has been worse than anything I could have imagined. It is made much worse by the hundreds of miles that separate us. I was told at the very beginning of all this nightmarish process that I had rights as a father: of course I had rights. What no-one told me was that rights are meaningless unless you establish them in a court of law: until that is done you have nothing. And the establishing of them costs all that lawyers are able to drag from you: not only money, but dignity also. It has been a humiliating and exhausting process. Over those three years I have scribbled words on backs of envelopes; I have written fragments I was barely conscious of writing at all. Poetry was hardly in my head: I lived in four different houses, out of a stack of boxes and bags. How could poetry be in my head? And yet poems have crept in through the cracks of the darkness all the same, and after a long time I gathered them up and read them and put them together. SPCK in London have just accepted this new collection for publication in 2016: I think it is appropriate that it should be entitled Letting in the Light. And this is the last poem from the book, remembering the day my beloved Willow was christened.


We drove through grey silence;
the skies drifting with snow
in a winter that would not end.

At the church I made promises
in a language I did not know -
and a German bell rang out,
strange in the muffled day.

And then you ran to me, Willow,
and you carried the sun in your running;
you poured into laughter and ran
as though all the war was over.

And inside a shell broke
that Easter Sunday morning;
a shell like a bird's egg
flooded over with warm light.

The long folly of words,
the gunneries of rage,
the anger of small conflicts -
useless, forgotten, gone.

The land left open
for the love of sunlight -
the beginning of another spring.

Rain

There is a title I have never yet used that remains nonetheless in my head: It rained when it should have snowed. There is rain all round my house here in Highland Scotland tonight: there has been not a sign of frost yet. I find it strange how people react to what is an undoubted change: they're grateful for mild days. So are the tabloid newspapers, rejoicing over the hottest July day and exulting the fact that the temperature in London has broken all records. It rained when it should have snowed. Yes, in my childhood there would have been snow in the hills by now; our nights would have been frosty. Most years the snow lay for at least two weeks: I built a slide in my garden and, like every other boy since time began, I bewailed the final melting of the ice. Now we are shocked when the ice is there for more than a few days: it is almost as though something has gone wrong. No, it is the mildness that is wrong. A few years ago I spoke with a man on the west coast of Greenland who showed me the bit of coast beyond his window where he had grown up. Once upon a time there was thick ice in winter, he told me: we used to drive over the ice to visit friends, he said. Now there is no more ice: it retreats ten miles further north each year. It rained when it should have snowed. And will anything be done about the melting at the Paris summit? I fear we'll make promises that we'll change our ways by 2020 or 2045: the deadline will be pushed on a little further yet again. As it rains when it should snow.


AFTER THE STORM

The valley lay in the window
Dazed and damaged.

The river horsed under bridges
Swirling with earth and rain.

The fields were filled with mirrors, glass stretches
Reflecting a breaking sky.

The house was silent, left unhumming -
We were powerless, there was nothing we could do.


(From Kenneth Steven's collection Coracle, published by SPCK in London).

The Road

There is one book that has had a huge impact on my psyche over the last few years. It's a thin novel that was sent to me by a friend from Edinburgh: she had put between its pages a short letter and sent it on its way, telling me how much it had meant to her. I am not the reader I once was. That book, together with its letter, lay forgotten in one of the many piles about the house until I came to move it once too often. Now it demanded my attention and that night I opened the book. To say that I was haunted by it is too feeble a description by far. I am not sure that any book has occupied my thinking in the way that this one has done: 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy. On the surface it is the simplest of stories: a man and his young boy are walking a destroyed landscape in search of something. We learn piece by piece what it is they have left behind and what they are moving towards, or may be seeking. And yet we don't ever know the full truth. This landscape, a ravaged America, has witnessed some terrible disaster. The trees, the rivers and the sea are all dead. The land is occupied by a few bands of merciless marauders, and all of them use the artery of the road. But what endures in one's reading of this book is a sheer pervading sense of the love possible between a father and his child. One scene stands out for me above all the rest. At one point the two break into a petrol station and find a dispenser which has long since been toppled over and raided. Just one can of cola remains. The father opens it and gives it to the boy to drink. He simply sits and watches his son drinking, happy to witness his brief happiness at a few fresh mouthfuls of dark bubbles.
I think it was most likely 'The Road' that set me thinking about the fragility of our world and the savage stupidity of the way we abuse and consume it. However long ago I found myself writing a poem which gained the title 'The Ghost Orchid', named after yet another species we have destroyed. The poem is published in my last collection 'Coracle' from SPCK in London.


One day, when the air is sore to breathe
And the seas are dead and heavy, thudding
Over empty shores, and only a dwindling of us

Remain - strange, in hiding,
From yellow and red skies,
From scabbed earth -

We will draw in caves
The eerie shapes
Of everything we remember;

We will weave out of firelight
What fields meant, what horses were,
The story of flowing water, of birds bringing morning into song.

And for a while
Before we have grown old
Like moss on rocks, furred and searching with age,

Our children will believe
It was that beautiful,
That good.