Birlin Roon The mair time A spend on Airth the mair A want God tae be a wumman. No that weemin are uniquely virtuous in aw weys, raither that if there's ony vortices o virtue in the cosmos it's mair likely tae be amang the craiturs that gie birth than them whase function is ither-like and opposite. A’d like a God different frae whit A wis brocht up wi that got hemmered intae ma heid like nails early on – a jealous, birsie, beardie fellae glowerin doon frae his heivenly tenement. A’d like a God that wis like a Glesca grannie, aye up fur takkin the weans tae the pairk, kennin they need a bit a fresh air, same as she dis, and a push on the swings. She rejoices in their play, bends doon tae gie comfort tae the yin that's skint her knee, intervenes when the gemm's getting rough, or when yin wean is threatenin tae clour the ither on the neb. And afore denner time, afore gaun-hame time she gies them a turn on the carousel aw thegither, balancin ilkither, aw equal, and she caws the bar for yin mair go and gars it flee, and it birls, and it birls, and it birls (Winner Autumn Voices Competition, 2025)

Fireflies They’re like Christmas lights, twinkling points in the hedge and in the grass until you catch the jink and swerve of them, the small dyings and fadings of creatures invisible by day, unless an entomologist with ground-fixed eyes, hunkered, finds a plain, dull carapace and says the Latin name. Now, in the gloaming they flash on-off, on-off, like lighthouses on airy capes, transient brightnesses with darkness in between, each a tale in our own mortal book – lives like sparks of flame, photons that take wing when the sun sets and signal to their fellow travellers across the universe. (pub. Amethyst, 2023)

Bield-Seeker - Autumn Voices Competition Runner-Up 2024

Bield-Seeker 28, 29, 30… ‘Nae mair’ says the man an he hauds up his haun. A plead wi him – juist me an the wean – an A gie him the last o ma money. He shrugs his shouders, whummles us in. Nae room tae breathe, we’re packed in that ticht but A’m gled – third nicht o tryin – an the ither times the polis slashed the rubber. An noo we’re awaa. But it’s stertin tae blaw, thir’s a gale, the waves higher an higher, the watter’s comin ower the side an the dinghy’s cowpit – Oh God, save us, save me, save ma wean! Aabody’s bobbin aboot, it’s daurk an A cannae see ocht. A’ve got haud o a bit o wuid, tryin tae keep ma heid up an the watter’s cauld… that cauld… A’m on land, dinnae ken whaur A am. ‘Please mister, hiv ye seen ma wean, a wee boy?’ He says, ‘We picked up 28 alive includin yersel an three deid – nae weans yit, but thir’s anither boat oot lookin an A hear they’ve rescued someone, nae information on their age.’ An A’m thinkin, A dinnae care aboot onybody else, juist, please God let it be ma boy, let it be ma boy.

Painter's Belly, Painter's Eye (Still Life with Beer Glass, Georg Hinz (1630-1688; pub. Autumn Voices Newsletter, monthly competition) Here's your beer, Georg, your usual, but I'm sorry, we can't give you proper fare tonight. We had a crowd in here – aldermen, wives as well, they scoffed bratwurst, pies, eggs, cheese – the lot. God save us, you look absolutely famished! Tell you what – I can rustle up some rolls, barely enough I suppose to fill your belly but they'll take the edge off your hunger. Here you are. And now I see you've arranged the table with your painter's eye. It’s like a landscape – with the beer glass in the middle and the bread rolls sitting round it, well-fired, golden and enticing, begging to be eaten.