The Ferguslie Tourist By Kevin Muirhead Am a Paisley boy born and bred, Tae a faimly of Fegs with the name Muirhead, They hailed fae a street called Logan Drive, Tae the outsider I suppose it was a bit ae a dive, But embedded within it was a deep burning pride, Filled with people...
Read MoreBy Roddy Scott Aince lang ago, when jist a gleam in ma maw’s een, I was telt the tale o’ Jock the Shepherd an’ his Golden Fleece. In the autumn, he wuid drap a sheep’s fleece intae a burn- a certain burn- oan the Isle o’ Arran, knowing that when the spring cam an’...
Read MoreBy Basia Palka THE TABLE SET a cupful of love a plateful of emotions and a jugful of time from PAINTING WITH POETRY my prayer LETTING GO first anger, then a sort of sadness sets in followed by much weeping, when the eyes have dried out that it’s difficult to open or close eyelids...
Read MoreBy Brian Whittingham Along the path beside the river Cart I saunter down 50 years of memory, you keeping me company. We pass the remains of Tam Mulgrew’s golf range the fairway overgrown with gnarled bushes, its meshed perimeter fence hanging like abandoned cobwebs. These days, I can’t hear, the ‘ting ting ting’ of approaching...
Read MoreBy Brian Whittingham At Canal Street’s Railway Path, the church’s wrought-iron gates are padlocked with decay as if the church itself is a prop for a spooky film. We stumble over dry twigs and crunch leaves, squelching mud underfoot, the thorny undergrowth reaching for our ankles as we wind our way past dead headstones...
Read MoreBy Claire Casey A mouth, snarling at the world, a figure of stone, standing against all the evils of this world that threaten to overrun. It forces them back from whence they came, and protects the building that it calls home. No evil shall enter, or pass beyond, the thick, ancient stone walls. Not...
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