Sketches from this mornings walk in Fintry and Whitfield. When the Fintry housing scheme was being built all the street names were prefixed with Fin. So there is a Finlaggan Terrace, Finlarig Place, Findale Street, Finavon Place, Finedon terrace, Fintry Gardens, Findcastle Terrace etc…..

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A pale pink sash to the morning

wraps itself against a tight fitting

hip skimming

grey sky.





holding the heart of a songbird in my hand,



we sing.




Bright pink feet.



Rolled up jeans and skinny white legs,

guddling in the burn.

It is March.

I shiver.

What are you doing ? we ask.

Looking for treasure, he answers with a grin.

Gets out his wallet and shows us a tooth, thinks it might be human….

Another lad says he found a 1970’s coke bottle.

Must be it looks so old.

They are waiting for their mate to finish work.

Bright pink feet.

Searching under stones.

Men being boys again,


at the cold.



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This is a piece that has come straight from my sketch book. It is a drawing, a sketch, something not fully realised but I like the way it may or may not become something else. It comes from a walk when I took the photograph. My phone hummed in my pocket and I looked at it to discover I was being followed by a Russian man, on Twitter….. The final connection was a conversation about claimants and the benefits system.


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In a scrubby woodland of sycamore and thorns, the wind has smacked a punch right through his den of black plastic bags. He looks at the gaping hole, like a mouth of a ray filtering food, the way his mind sifts words to find ones that fit. Except today there are none. He turns to see the man still there. He thinks he might be Russian. He knows the sanctioning will not end.


Here are the opening lines to a new composition ‘Caravan’, the inspiration coming from a walk along the burn one particular day when I came across a torn up Christmas card on the verge. It read To Lisa and the wee man and I began to wonder who they were and why it had been ripped up. The other point of reference came from a wartime  story I was told about an old bakers van that had been buried in a garden and fitted out with bunk beds for the eight children for use as an air raid shelter. So here’s the opening to the piece and a drawing that goes with the composition….


On the edge of town

a bone black fineness of winter air

licks the salty rime at the lip of last tide.

Bridge pilings punctuate the slaked

slipped clay

sooking the river toward the sea….


Drumgeith bridge