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

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

Critical assessment of government is mainly evident by its absence.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

“If I had hated,” you said, “I would have become an assassin.

But no, my revenge is love.” Goodness does not just endure, its passion

Is to fight evil, with humane weapons. You did this Marguerite,

In Burundi in the face of genocide where a squad of elite

Killers forced you to witness them killing seventy humans

Including a man you loved, so that, they declared, they might ruin

Your hope, but failed because in that place you made Maison

Shalom where ethnic designations were banned and the pleasant

Skills of children, women, and men nourished until a small

Refuge grew to include a hospital, restaurant, gym and theatre, all

Stolen by your own government when you had to flee its

Malevolence in 2015, since when you have seen the

Twa, the indigenous pygmy people of the African Lakes,

As the symbolic focus of your work for justice. Fake

Saints exist but millions of poor people declare you

Authentic.Amen. But to understand the care you

Have given, I had to read the story of the Rwandan

Genocide: the political designers of hate; the brutal

Propaganda; the interahamwe militia, the radio

Mix of music and murder. Just so. But your neighbour

Coming for you with a machete, your pastor watching

You raped five times a day, their way of snatching

Babies from your arms to slice them open, playing

Football with your husband’s head, happily flaying

The skin from captive soldiers -A ruthlessness only

Of homo sapiens, not seen elsewhere on the globe

Maybe not in the universe, justifying the terrible Christians

Who wrote of total corruption and the stink of Satan. Missions

Of love look vain in face of this evil, the bloodstains refuse

To wash out. Amor non vincit omnia. The sticky stuff chooses

To stay on Jesus’ hands and feet and side. Neither his love

Nor yours Marguerite redeems what was done here nor those

Who did it. Only love can foster life, it’s true, you are our teacher,

But does any sensible person want to foster the life of this creature?

 

 

 

When I got around to finding facts about you Graça

you had been one of my heroes for decades, but I was

amazed to know you were younger than me, just eighty!

I have taken 84 to do so much less. Your years are weighty

With achievements: taking the Mozambique Primary School

Attendance from 40% to over 90% in your political rule

As minister of Education; First Lady of Mozambique while

Your husband was alive; The UN asked you to compile

Out of your experience, “Children Involved in war” that deals

With kids made to kill; you helped to make women visible

As citizens, freeing them from marriage when children, setting

Up The Graça Machel Trust to continue your unfettering

Of children and women throughout Africa.And you endured

to become an Elder, bringing common sense to human

folly. Your years are hung with trophies and honours. But

what fixes you in my heart are the years of no mounted

memories when you were married to a man who found

that being a marxist ruler made enemies he was bound

to kill, to whom disloyalty meant death, whose state

fought child soldiers with child soldiers. It is too late

and disrespectful to ask questions about what you thought

and said and did then, but in the thinking of much wisdom,

the saying of much love and the doing of much goodness

you will have asked these questions with your own shrewdness

and learned your truth, which shines the brighter for having

a little shadow to set it off, for me at least. If only mine was as

small a shadow and as encompassing a light, my sister, Graça.

How to express my affection for you, as you speed

from your nest, a shallow dip in the rock, to scream

with other terns as you hover, twist and drop to catch

fish for your chick amidst waves, sun, wind and snatching

beaks and you”ll stick that red dagger into anyone

that threatens the chick, however large. Your feminine

powers are not limited to child-rearing but include

charting a track down Africa towards the fast-food

winter paradise of Antarctica where the sun shines

24/7 to help you hunt. In your 30 year lifetime

you’ll fly roughly 1.5 million miles, through all weathers

over every terrain, making you the most travelled

of all creatures and one of the toughest,although

also one of the most beautiful with your snow-

white tapered wings and tail. You challenge my

sorry-for-myself mood- I’m -not -sleeping, why-

am -I -depressed, my -wife’s not -well, I’m getting-

old- “Soft thing,” you tell me, “my first wetting

was the arctic sea at Spitzbergen, and I’ve flown the hot

edge of the Sahara. As for family, I’ve got

a mate back here in Spring, if he survives,

and young ones as they learn must risk their lives

each day. Last year I watched while one of mine

who made his first flight from the nest, looking to me, calling,

was taken by a peregrine. Only a feather in the air, falling.”