The Showcase page shows some work by current members of the group. More work from former members and other local writers can be found on the Other Local Writers Page. All work that appears in the Showcase remains the copyright of the author. No work may be reproduced without the prior permission of the writer. Writers may be contacted via the Biggar Writers website.
Lemon bitter years
of unripened fruit
Apollo free zone
a pip falls
soft brown earthen eyes
offer seed bed softness
breach the wall
release the sunshine glow
All in a minute
a woman shoulders sagged, sad it seemed
a man walking, bouncing, laughing
it could have been reversed
my clown teacher told me he saw
men with chins glued to chests
eyes to feet
I wanted to say would you like me to listen
come and learn to clown, to play
but I didn't
unsure which wore the mask
For forty days and nights
Rain fell from the heavens with
The passion of an angry God.
We huddled together on board
Our father’s ark, fearful; hearing
The screams of friend and foe outside.
After the first week’s rain
We were afloat, drifting rudderless
In new uncharted waters; the horizon,
Circling the latitude of our thoughts,
Unblemished by what
We knew was once there.
Each day was like the last.
We measured time by shades
Of steel-grey light and dark.
Each night we searched the starlit sky;
Seeking a signal; a divine dart of light. . .of hope.
But the stars remained a mystery
Beyond the ken of kith and kin aboard,
Where none was mariner or astronomer,
Or knew the rhythms of sea or sky.
After a week we stopped hearing
The bleats and bellows of the beasts below.
Or of voices raised when tempers flared,
Exposed to the elements of wind and rain.
Or the forced muffled sound of husband
And wife warming the darkened air.
We lived apart as best we could.
Each praying for virtues that would
Help us live together. We counted
The days before the rain stopped:
Forty glaurlit days and bruised nights.
We sent out starlings, sparrows,
Pigeons, crows and doves in search
Of land we knew was there.
Then out of the greyness came a light;
A sparrow with a twig of Rowan flew
Into our hearts like a mighty eagle.
Our hopes rose as the waters ebbed.
On the forty-first morning our father
Called us to the deck and pointed
At a mountain dreamed a dozen times.
‘Look, over there. . . Ben Nevis!’
by William-John Deerin
DAYS LIKE THIS
it always happens
on days like this:
the sky drains to a
wash of drab mid-tones,
by dabs of dullness,
while stone-grey tear-drops
spatter the window-pane.
down the garden path
skeletal twigs reach out
from the thick corpse
of a copper-beech
to claw at the empty
cloys the air around it.
do I think of you
pedalling your blue bicycle
along a tree-lined street in
the heart of old Potsdam.
and the sunny smile you gave me
as you passed by out of reach
and into the magic
by William-John Deerin
Wake up and listen as bird song fills the air
And clear fresh mornings wipe away despair
Wake up and look as buds burst forth
To clothe the naked branches after pangs of birth
Wake up and feel the change in this sweet place
The altered breeze that has the warmth to chase
The chill of Winter’s now departing face.
Wake up and taste the wine of Spring
A heady mix of sun, soft rain and growth to bring
Our senses reeling with glorious expectation
And fill our souls with bright new inspiration
Wake up and smell the crisp new days
Fill your senses, lift your hearts in praise
Of Mother Nature and the promise that she always keeps.
by Jenifer Whyte
ON AN OLD MAN PASSING
The candle flickered
Moved by a draft
From the casement,
The dark recesses of the room,
Vying with the still embers
In the failing hearth
The armchair clutched
His pallid pattern
Another stain upon
Its sullied bosom,
The accustomed burden
Not wishing to let go.
The house echoed
To the last breath
Held its memory motionless
Marking the air
Above the silent form
The candle guttered
by Jenifer Whyte
The boys from Baile are beside me
running barefoot on the shingle
sprint of youth in their footsteps
before my eyes, within my blood.
Showered shell-dust on the shoreline
the pristine sands, a prince’s playground
sea-drop sprinkled, like a blessing
holding hopes and steeling hearts.
Waters poured and purifying
usher forth upon the coilleag
with waves dispatch of wild white horses
and fresh-foamed fronds of mermaid hair.
Sunlight sparkles on the sea-swell
a glittering jewel-store in the shallows
brae-born rainbows end we follow
tidemark treasures at the sound.
Ceol na mara and the echoed
recitations from the school yard
rhymes of mariners or bardachd
acts of memory called in time.
I long to run the sands length with them
a whispered wish-prayer, hurts deep heart-song
but without words I reach the Amen
and let the west-balm haul me in.
By Maggie McGeary