Jean Pearce

Another Perthshire Writer

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As a member since 2003/04, I have enjoyed the company and helpful comments over the years of the many friends I have made since joining. All of whom bring their various talents to whatever genre of writing they enjoy. Workshops, visiting speakers, and competitions all contribute to make interesting readings and discussions, where everyone is encouraged to contribute in an informal, happy atmosphere and hopefully hone their skills.

Game, Sett and Match

The badger lumbers from his sett at night
When man in slumber has put out his light
Nocturnal wildlilfe in shadows greet
To play and forage for their daily meat;
But shades of grey await in gloom
The traps are primed to mete out doom
Device inhuman - set to kill
A fox or badger - come what will.

A red sky breaks, the shepherd's warning
And for the badger, last day dawning
His black and white coarse fur stained red
Choked and blooded, helpless, dead;
Redder than a foxes brush
Who missed the hangman's ruthless crush
Of cold steel collar, biting deep
In neck now lifeless and deemed cheap.

Despite his handsome face and size
In "Sporting Circles" - not worth a prize!

badger

No Wolves, No Foxes

There is a howling in the air
But there are no wolves, no foxes here
Only the bitter howling of the North Wind
Conjuring up wild fears
Piercing the stillness – and the eardrums
As it opens up its Siberian mouth
Blowing in its white cold, ice cold, blank cold snow;
Blinding the eyes with its brightness
Piping the tree barks and branches
With its forceful breath
And covering the furrowed fields
With an insensitive shroud
A winter wet blanket
There are no wolves, no foxes here
Whining speechless in aching loneliness
Only a wailing gale
With its Arctic blurring blizzard.

Satanic Mills

“And did those feet” weary, tired
Walk along pathways dusty, mired
In days long gone on the road to Blair
Where work and noise caused many a care
No health and safety rules back then
When factories grew in every glen
And mills housed corn and flax and jute
Now empty shells – or museums mute
Its history quite silent now
Which in its day rivalled the plough
Employing many voices local
To feed machines so very vocal
Grinding and waving side by side
The River Ericht flowing wide
Into the mighty rushing Tay
Raging forceful every day
To mighty ocean currents sent
See sequined salmon heaven bent
On annual journey up to spawn
While workers too from dusk to dawn
Faced arduous tasks no glamour here
With rattling shuttles weaving fear on how to feed the children cold
In winter – their poor tales untold,
But now the fields are clothed in green
With many plastic tunnels seen
Housing the berries warm in bed
So many people can be fed,
When red and ripe with the sun’s rays
Forgotten no, the “good old days”
When local labour walked to toil
By river through Blairgowrie soil.