I. Man with Stray Dog

The day I went away to Crianlarich

St Andrews held breath

Under the cracked silence of its dead cold,

The weather froze in synthesis

The burning soul and January death.

I remember my mother used to say

How she dreaded the winter and longed for its turn,

But knew that was only a happy dream of summer;

Outside the tears of the icy dew

Clung to the weeping willow by the stream

And carnality did up his top coat button.

On the way to the bus-shelter

I could see the bare grey sky

Through the West Port gateway,

An old old wonder that sank into its warm recesses

And set fire to the imagination

With its fine curves reaching and luring and reclining.

And nearby sat a lonely fellow.

The frost had licked its crackling tongue

Across the pavements, and along the bench,

A biting wind tore at his coat

It beat on his face, urged him to turn his head

So he agreed humbly and put down his hand

To stroke the stray dog that had crept up under the seat -

And the morning swallowed him up.

I walked on to the shelter :

It was a bitter day and I had a mind for other things,

But thought lingered

Upon 'Demosthenes' and his silent approval.

The town fluttered with dolly scarves

And the student crowds coated in hood-and-gown,

For existence forces up you know

Through contorted woods, wandering walls;

The coming snow will strip the battered trees

Leaving only bare hedgerows

And gypsy tatters flapping in the breeze.

The bus arrived to drive me far away...

I wouldn't have minded,

But this was the climax of his eternity.

II. Highland Bus Trip

George the driver gripped to his wheel

Shattering the silence of the ancient pines

And trying to hold back some furious horse within him

We forged on up Glen Ogle.

The bus tore past in a trail of broken branches

Leaving the morning to collect itself

And settle back to rest in its greater harmony.

Coldness flowed down from the hills, like bad news without sound

Without sign on the river's foam it unfolded

And chilled the heart of the highland glen.

Here the mountains close in upon downland villages

And bring folk out to each other under the white winter shoulders.

The driver gave rein and pressed down faster

Now swerving towards a perennial wether

'Just missed the bastard'.

He smiled knives at his comrades Wullie and Jeannie

A highland grimace that cut through the city facade

And lighting a cigarette between his tight fingers

Threw back his head at the cold in contempt at it all.

Snow was falling lightly after Killin

Come next time, the blizzard,

And their friendship is torn asunder

And blown down the valley on the wild wind.

I got off at my destination

And the bus cluttered away through the outstretched highland town

Fading like our futilities under the mountain's frown.

III. Hillwalk on Stuc A'Chroin

Late morning sun shines out on the wintered waste land:

Rise to the empty stage of mountain moor

The actors have departed, the clouds are drawn across

There are no sounds of the Human Comedy

* * * * *

I left the heated passions of the highland town

And the blood ran from me like youth's memory,

Left breathing the frozen reality of a vast desolation.

The cold reached around white boulder tops

Yet high in the wilderness

Life echoed down upon the restless waters

Like shattered couplets thrown to the deaf sky:

Dark streams of my fathers

* * * * *

The pricking gale cuts across the mountain tops

Strips off remembrance from the frozen bone

With the dissolution of all under an empty skyline

And the day grows chill

* * * * *

Peace, peace now, as shadows lengthen homewards

No life stirring on the arctic wind,

No agonies of passing love :

I could not accept this pure sterility

Except it breeds a greater mystery

It breathes its deeper sighs of personality -

And time rests in the cradled arms of yellow twilight

As we are moved towards harmonious acceptance

* * * * *

Thus afternoon grew rich to early evening

And I pressed down the glen

To face more trouble and the 'brave deeds of men'.

Spring held the day as it passed away

There was joy in the sobbing of the child-like ptarmigan

As they took wing and turned into the salmon-coloured clouds

Laden with the promise of fresh January showers.

The last red flames of dusk fall on the mountain ash,

The soft snow creeps over silent fir trees

And covers the sorrows and dismay of our contorted universe.

IV. Winter Evening at Lochearnhead

We drove through the dark mountain glen

Emblazoning the night in a flood of headlights.

The Skye lorrydriver jammed on the breaks

When the warm walls of the pub came into sight

As we spun down the hill to Lochearnhead.

Snow lay fast across the frozen forecourt

Winter breathed down the back of the house

But a large fire spat sparks at the sky

Cracked and crawled its way up a high chimney,

The low room was ablaze with friendship

The cold flesh tingled from the bleak wilds and warmed

To the smell of glowing whisky hung on the conversation.

You are brought close in a short night's drinking,

You do not see the contemplative stare

Or the reflection of frosty stars in the hot glass

That sprinkle ice particles over stone graves.

The golden lads drew, round the counter,

From the honeyed sweet talk of a baritone barman

Hill-farmer Lumby sat by his beer

And gazed in the flaring flames at bygone boys

And spoke in quiet tones of weariness.

The bird of the North turns down on the wind

Shielings crash beneath crippled trees

The fences we erect are torn apart

There are sheep calling on the beaten mountain heath.

So Farmer Lumby warmed his hands

Steeling his chilly heart to meet the storm

And the man from Skye returned to his load

The snow was soon passing below our wheels,

We, separate from them for all time.

Twenty minutes, I heard him say,

To the next stop on the road.

V. The Bus Conductress

Winter wrapped its arms around them,

As it had clasped to everything that day.

But could not stamp its icy mark

On two warm lovers in the dark

And swept across the depot in dismay.

The late-night bus came into Perth

And snow fell feathery through the flaming lights.

Dark figures stepped up stiff inside,

And while I lingered at the back

The snow ran fine across my face

And fingered down my spine.

She was the last to jump aboard -

That tired heroine of the underdogs,

Beaming ahead as the motors roared

To guide the traveller to his bed,

To be a dream in the darkness of deep winter.

Crossing her thighs before the windscreen-wipers

She squeezed smiles from painful passengers -

But trouble gouged deep furrows on her brow.

The bus ploughed on through the country lanes

While the slush choked up on the window panes

And outside the snow fell frenzied, fast,

A dark milk flowed from the frozen field

Slowly the wind wound up like a siren.

A hurricane lamp far off flared bleakly

Sending its streaks from a distant farm

Across the thick throes of furious night,

And the bus cast light on contorted trees

That reached at the heavens with their shaking fists.

As the headlights flashed round a banked corner

We saw the nearing urban glow

Of Dundee, burning the night away.

The engines died on the midnight air

Huge funereal warehouses lined the docks

Despair came in on the rising tide

And the wet wharves looked out to the vast oceans.

I followed her hollow footsteps away

As they echoed off over the dark yard

Towards her one-room Waldorf Astoria

Buried somewhere deep in the huge city.

Then I left for St Andrews and its provincial dons.

Life forces up, you know,

Through the covering of forgetful snow.

And at home, embraced in the comfortable arms

Of my comfortable wife in my comfortable bed

Perhaps, perhaps, I will mind what you said

And maybe remember your own dereliction?

'He left me twenty years ago'

You reminisced with a sad fixed smile

'On a night of heavy snow like this'.

I searched for anger in your voice

But found only a lack of rejoicing

And chill suspicion that disappointment

Had frozen hope into a grim forbearance.

Richard Henderson