Featuring Scottish Mettle (poem by douglas blair)

Alexander Peden, outcast

It was that Sabbath.
Last one inside the Kirk.
Preacher Peden shook hands
Smiling with that slight hint of courage…
Brethren, women this is it.
Thanks for showing
In spite of drizzle.
So what is drizzle
In face of our trusty Covenant
And pledge, to the bloods.
No King, no stench of
Political favour, Bishoping
From postures of convenience
And personal gain.
Will head up the church. Never.



Rather our presbyteries
Selecting each good shepherd
Guide, a father in faith, bringer
Of peace, love and hope.
We have had battles, deaths, tortures
Cries of hatred filling the air.
Disturbing the sheep in the heather.
(and so went his message
For extra-long duration.)
Then to the large front door
Parishioners passing through
Solemn silence, heads lowered.



Alexander, the Man of God
Raps the Big Door.
Thrice. With force.
Walking staff.
(Shocking some larks to launch
And fly off with the news.)
Locking it. He does.
Sobs manifold in our hearing.
The hiding times begun.
Sermons under moon and stars.
Solemn spires of Rock.
Blood spent. Not just talk.