Ma’soumeh will be late returning home, because the day is sunny,

Because a ceasefire is declared, because The Theatre Park is stuffed

With students who talk to her, so it’s after three when she remembers

She promised her mother to help with visit of a bereaved friend

-to make the coffee while they talk. She hurries to the metro, entering

a middle carriage rather than the women-only, crossing the city centre

to Azadegan and home. “Sorry, sorry, I forgot,” she tells her mother

who is in the kitchen. “It’s all right, my dove,” Yasmin says, “She’s under

stress, I’m making her food, go and talk to her. She’s Ziba. She goes.

“Auntie Ziba, hello I’m Ma’soum……..her words tail off because she knows

The woman is not hearing. She is silent and rigid on the sofa. She waits

Hoping her mother will arrive, but minutes go by without any change.

Unable to bear it longer she sits down beside Ziba, shoulder to shoulder

Cheek against taut cheek and is silent. Slowly Ziba’s anger and cold

Grief begin to seep into the child, an unimaginable desolation opens

Within her, so that she cannot speak or move but only share a sobbing

which suddenly comes from Ziba, who pulls her across her breast as

Yasmin runs in and embraces them both, weeping. Minutes pass

Until Ziba says, “Thank you, thank you, my sweet, my dear child,

for reminding me that although my child is dead, I am still alive.

“Tell us,” Yasmin whispers, “Tell us what happened.” Ziba settles

Into the sofa. “It was the third day of the protests, some rebels

Had been killed, but Soraya said she needed to share the danger

And I tried to argue, but she was resolute, “I’ll be fine, see you later”

After four hours she was not home so I went to find her. Some protesters

Told me there was shooting at the Velayat Parks. When I got there, no molesters

Only bodies on the asphalt by the go-carts. I shouted her name

And a weeping girl pointed me to a bundle on the ground, which became

Soraya, at least her clothes, her face was gone. ‘She ran,’ they told me ‘So

They shot her legs and she fell. Then they stood above her, with slow

brutality and shot her face. We are at college with her: she is a martyr.’

That’s what happened to my girl. So, I hate the government of my gangster

 Nation as much as Donald Trump and all his bombs.” “It’s like I’m born here,”

Ma’soumeh says, “From now on, I will always fight your daughter’s corner.”

 

 

 

 

The energetic bearded man, wearing a khaki shirt, jeans and fleece

Approaches her café table saying, “Good morning, you’ll be my niece,

Ma’soumeh.” She had responded to his note left at her school office

“Meet me on Friday 13 hours at the Bird Park café to celebrate this

Extension of my family, your uncle Kouroosh.” She told her mother

She had invented an uncle for protection without thinking what bother

Might result. “He sounds OK,” Yasmin had judged. “Just say sorry.”

“You told my colleague that I knew you were a pest.”- she worried

what was coming next- “But I was delighted by your humour. How

did you get here, it’s not easy if you don’tdrive.” “The metro, then I allowed

someone to give me a lift, a baker’s van in fact.” “I thought you would be

resourceful. Interesting you should choose me, since I am family-free.

After my mother’s death, I have no-one. I know you like birds, but what else

Do you like? “I love my mum Yasmin, I like school, I like the metro, I like

Nature, and I like coffee.” “So sorry, can I get you coffee or would you like

Lunch?” “Both, please.” He laughed and took her order. “I thought you might

Know this place given your interest in birds?” “No, it’s my first time here.”

“Why?” “I like birds because they are wild. I like their nesting, their breeding, their

Flying, their fighting, their migration, their freedom, but here they are caged

Or let fly within a huge net.” “Does the net offend you?” “It is somebody’s guage

Of beauty, but nobody asked the birds.” “I am part of the net around our country

A system of control that you may hate.” “Why do we need controlled?” “Capital,

The power of wealth, wants to rule by turning people into consumers of all

It sells, regardless of truth, justice or goodness. Our laws try to protect you.”

“But did I ask for that?” “It’s like vaccination against germs that might infect you.”

“Such as?” “Have you looked at the social media of the West?” “Yes.” “And?”

“It’s girls my age learning to be whores.” “Do you want that here?” “Aren’t

Parents enough?” “Not in Europe or the USA.” “How many people

Have you killed?” “None who were not trying to kill me.” “I want to keep you,

I want to like you, I want you for my uncle, you have been so patient

With me, but I have to be myself. I’m sorry for the lie I created

About you when I felt at risk, especially when you are fighting

A war.” “If I were your real uncle, I would be proud of your rightness

As a woman and a citizen. Can I be your unofficial uncle?” “I don’t

Know how to kiss a man with a beard, here is my hand.” He holds

It in two of his. “But it must be secret, no more using my name.

Ever.” “I will tell my mum.” “And she will know the rules of the game.

 Sometime I will meet her and tell her she is a good parent.” “This

Will be good for me.” “Inshallah,” he says, “and for me. If you wish

To contact me, use the text number you’ll find on your phone. I can’t

Be seen giving you a lift, but my guard, who is outside, a nice man,

Will take you anywhere.” “Oh fun!” she says, “May your hand not hurt,

God be with you!” “And with you,” he replies, kissing her forehead.

 

 

“Hello Yasmin,” she calls, using her mother’s first name, “That’s

Me off, it’s five o’clock, back by four this afternoon.” “Rats!”

Her mother groans, “School is so early now. I may be later,

I’m doing a sofa. Love you, Ma’soumeh.” “Love you, Mater,”

she replies, using the word from the English Boarding School books

she favours. She runs to the Metro at Azadegan, looking

ahead for the 05-10, as she enters the station, flashes her card

and arrives on the platform with the train, on which men are barred

from the first and last carriages, so that female virginity may be

protected. “Good idea” she thinks, without care for the theory

but great appreciation for the practice which means fun and games

beyond state control. She smiles as she recognises the same

hawker of cheap jewellery who had sold her a bangle last week

while she finds a seat in the rear coach, as if amongst colleagues,

some of whom greet her, Hi ‘Soumeh, Hey Professor, Salam darling,

which she receives by blowing kisses. There are at least 8 starting

their journey to work or study along line 3 and will be more. “Boys

will surrender to you if you use this,” the hawker says, “which brings joy.”

“I’m not much interested in boys,” she grins. The seller waves the scent

Bottle towards the older women. “Come on girls, your husbands will be begging

For it.” “He is already but he only gets it Fridays” one chuckles. “After Prayers

Of course,” another adds. “Ladies, ladies, remember we’ve got to behave

for the sake of Ma’soumeh here. “Nonsense Layla, she’ll get more education

here than in any school!” “Sisters and mothers,” Ma’soumeh says, “Your attention

for something my mother made.” Yay! Show us!” It is a very small handbag,

pale leather, with a darker image of a bird. They pass it round, with frank

admiration, “Is it for sale? How much?” “No, she made it for me, ‘cause

I love birds, but you can order yours with something you love.” “Who knows

What I love, but we know what you love, Sabrina and you can’t show it

On a bag, eh?” “It takes three days work, at 6million rials a day, plus

The cost of leather, another 6million, so a bargain at 25million. Less

Than a week’s wages. Order from me.” More women are getting on

From the platform and the bag is passed to them. “I’ll need to sweat

to afford that, but order me one, with a rose.” Others are getting off

At their stations, saying goodbyes and blessings, with hands pressed

To her cheek, then Ma’soumeh exits at the City Theatre, and the rest

Of her journey is a walk to her school, a familiar route for her to follow.

Now she is ready for Maths, Science, Iranian Literature, and Allah.

 

 

 

Ma’ soumeh is a quiet girl aged 12 who lives in Tehran.

After studies, she likes to walk through the city wearing

Discreet Islamic clothing, with aim of seeing the birds

She knows and loves, ordinary ones -she might flirt

With storks- but doves, woodpeckers, bulbuls, sparrows,

are her true delight; and although she does not relish parrots’

screeching she likes their green impudence. A solitary female

is suspect by the Morality Police but they are not so brave

during the US/ Israel bombing. If a siren sounds or explosions

are near she knows the nearest below-street car-park will cushion

the blast. She stops at a bench to eat the lunch her mum provided,

stew with rice, from her thermos. It’s not very hot but it slides

down easily as a reminder of home. Last week the tall hedge

to her left was full of nesting bulbuls with chicks since when

much of its leafage has been blown away. As she leans into it

a uniformed arm snakes round her neck and pulls. She bites

hard, without thinking. “Dirty little bitch” a voice says. She turns

to see a woman officer from The Morality Police nursing an arm.

“Sorry” she says, “I thought you were a man, attacking me. I’m trained

To react.” “Quite well trained,” the policewoman says, “You’ve maimed

Me.” “So sorry, I’ve got my first aid kit here. Let me wipe it, see the skin

Is bruised not broken. This is an antiseptic plaster. It was my uncle

He’s in the Quds, taught me self-defence.” “How did I get into this fankle?

You’re tough, you’re smart, and your uncle is in Quds. What’s his name?”

“He’s Kouroosh Khorani.” “KK, yes I’ve seen him on TV. He’s famous.”

“Don’t worry, he knows I’m a pest.” “So, what are you doing all on your own,

Peering at bushes?” “Birdwatching.” “Why?” “They’re so beautiful. Look

These are bulbuls, nesting. The female is feeding the chicks. A drone shook

Their bush to bits but this nest survived.” “Ah, she’s neat, grey, and brown

like a good muslim woman!”  “And a black headscarf too!” “But down

there, a bright yellow ass, that beats us.” “Vent, the bird books say, and listen,

the male is on that tree, singing.” “A chook-chook, then a flutey bit. Is he whistling

at us?” “At other birds, who might raid the nest. But come round this side

and see what the drone did.” Splattered outwards for thirty yards lie

bits of nest and bird, a wing, a head, the scrawny dinosaur of a chick.

“As they say, the death of a civilisation,” the policewoman says, quickly

Standing upright as a car passes by. “Peacemaking is not so hard,”

The girl ventures. “Yeah, we just did it,” the adult agrees, “perhaps

The big guys must learn to birdwatch. Thanks for your lesson,

And good luck. My name is Nazanin. And yours?” “Ma’soumeh.”

 

 

 

 

I got to them via the name of my road, Panmure Street,

Monifieth, which leads from the village north eastwards

Into flat country and golf courses until Carnoustie. The name

Panmure belongs here and comes from Pan Mawr, translated

 As “big hollow” from Pictish, a language related to Welsh. Wow!

I imagined a solitary Pict settling here with hens and cow

Giving his farm this name, but then realised that this was

Pictland and its population Picts, all of whose gobs

Spoke a Celtic language which had a p where Irish had

A q. For ploughing the fields in springtime they used the ard

A scratch plough, that scarred the soil, rather than turning

It over, requiring variations from the original line, running

At right angles over it, to open the soil for seed. It could be

Pulled by women, men, or oxen. In autumn you could see

Them working the sandy soil, steam rising from their effort,

Rallying their beasts as the frenzied seagulls dropped

Behind them, earning harvests of oats, wheat, and barley

Peas beans carrots turnips kale onions and leeks. Garlic

And other herbs they gathered wild. But this woman pulls

Up a plant called Skirret, discards the leaves and shakes off

The soil to find a bunch of white roots that are easy enough

To detach and place in a pan with a little butter over the fire,

To cook with herbs. Lifting the pan to the table she cries her

Children and her man to share this treat, fingers thrust in

The pan to pick a root and push it between lips first,

then savour it with tongue, then split with teeth, sweet,

Earthy, with a smellof mushroom. It’s soon gone but hard to beat,   

They think, and smile and hug each other, once again made sure

It’s not so bad a life to be Picts in the fields of Panmure.

 

 

The report of its sale for £26 million reminds me

To check all the photos from 2010 to find the

Royal couple seated on a bench above the reservoir

Faces tilted to the south-east, their bodies narrowing

To the waists, yet full enough around the shoulders

And the legs to give their shape authority. Her folded

Hands are delicate, while his, resting on bench and thigh

Are elegantly relaxed. Intimate with each other, they are shy

Of those who come to look, as they enjoy their view of Scar

Hill across the water, over the years, and over those who marred

Their beauty by cutting off their heads. They are not here

For ever, more a visit to reveal themselves as creator

Of this land, ceaselessly working its perfection, hill

Valley, stream, and loch with other workers who will

share the task, from those who dig the soil, like women

men and worms to those who sculpt the land, like wind and

rain and frost, secretly turning the minds of human beings

towards loveliness, like the Laird whose appreciative feelings

led him to place sculptures by Rodin, Moore, and Epstein

on this estate, which he made public, only to be undermined

by thieves and vandals. The sculpture has gone but the King

and Queen in their patience and humility continue working

in this place as in Alpha Centauri,in spite of ridicule

and defeat, to make a universe worthy of their rule.

 

 

Commentators are puzzled as to why Trump started this war

Which is not surprising as the Greatest War Leader himself was

Vague. Some think he wanted a war he could stop and thereby

Earn himself the Nobel Peace Prize. That’s a tempting answer, but I

Know better. Let’s just think clearly about the nature of Iran. Firstly

Its ruling elite are not responsible to anybody and do as they wish.

Complaints from citizens are treated with contempt. They push

A national ethos of worship and obedience, imposed on all media

Of public information and protected by force, with a precise schema

Of good and bad. Opposition, especially from groups called woke,

From universities, artists, writers and the like, is destroyed by choking

Critical assessment of government is mainly evident by its absence.u

Off their funding, bureaucratic interference, or if necessary, violence.

A detachment of fanatical thugs is always at the disposal of the elite

To threaten, beat up, torture or murder persons who are not wanted–

Immigrants, feminists, liberals, radicals – whose lives are haunted

By the threat of death. The state puts itself and its policies ahead

Of all other concerns, supporting killers in other states who shred

Any local policies that do not suit their masters. So, check:

Surely you can see that Trump could not allow such a mirror

Image of his USA to flaunt itself in the world. Hence the terror.

 

 

Eyes circled by dark fur on a fawn face you gaze confidently

Enough as you perch on a human wrist, when you are presented

To the camera. Now we can prove that The Ring-tailed Glider,

Tous Ayamaruensis, thought to have gone extinct the far side

Of the first Pharaoh, is alive and well in a Papuan forest,

Called by scientists a Lazarus Taxon, a back-from -the -dead

Being, although the indigenous people, for whom it is sacred,

Have lived with it thousands of years, while forbidden to utter

its name. You look the intruder in the eye, trusting that the shutter

of the camera is their only weapon. You were declared extinct

because your fossilised remains were found with no link

to any living creature. Well, no known link. Other lazarus

taxa have suffered the same human arrogance, plus

scientific astonishment when discovered to be alive.

None of our nonsense has stopped your quiet survival

Nesting in tree holes, eating nuts, and fruits and blossoms,

Guarded by people for whom the holy is a kind of possum.

You do not know us and will not be wise to trust us, now you

Have been addedto the list of contents of our planet. Few

Share your story but maybe Lazarus should be asked the question

If he truly enjoyed all the consequences of his resurrection.

 

He has worked in gardens most of his days honing

A physique capable of digging, planting, weeding, sowing

And lifting. hours at a time, with civilised breaks for food

And conversation, the latter deciding whether he would

Classify you as friend or merely customer. His talk revealed

That he was an educated man who had studied his field

In books, at courses, online media, and with fellow workers

Relishing facts and theories that were his ecological scriptures

Sacred but correctable that helped him comprehend

the landscapes on which he lived and worked. He knew I’d

been at university and therefore with learned terms he tried

me out, often proving the vagueness of my knowledge. Biome

I could manage but ecotone, no way. “Ah,” he says, spying

A chance to shine, “It’s the transition zone between different

Ecosystems. Like the tree line on mountains, with small bent

Trees and big shrubs, taking life from above and below. Or like

The lush vegetation by a watercourse” “Riparian” I reply,

Proud to remember the word. I had it easy, middle class

Posh school, Uni, and into a job I loved; he, stats

Call unusual, made his way from a housing scheme

Into skilled work which became a vocation. Even

Now he worries about funding his retirement. I’ve grown

To enjoy his visits here. For him and me, an ecotone.

 

 

When the trolley buses were voted a failure and abolished

I was allowed to take the train to school in the city. It hissed

Into Muirend station at 8-34am, the 2-6-4 steam engine pulling

at least five coaches, which let me reach the start of my school-day

in Elmbank Street by 9-15, a sad routine for eight years of my lifetime.

But I was an aficionado of trains long before that, since one north line

Took me to my granny in Aberdeen, another to our holidays

On Speyside, and the line to Uplawmoor bordered our estate

To the west. Parents forbade us to go there so of course we did,

To play in the surplus carriages parked in sidelines and shit

In their loos. Whenever I saw a train on track my imagination

Would be engaged, envisaging its journey and destination

Even if I knew nothing of it, and speculating on its travellers headed

Home from work or off to London, with eyes fixed on me spread-

Eagled on the embankment. As I hated school, these trains became

The promise that this was not all, there were other better places

for people that would be accessible. Still today, when my old

body does its interval training at the football pitch next the coastal

Line north, I pause if a train, local shuttle or Azuma Express, goes

By, telling me me that if frailty of muscles or of mind shows

a time is near that puts an end to all this bother

yet I can hope there will be a train, one way or the other.