The geological poem

Some years ago I realised that rocks, minerals and geology had often inspired me to write poems. Hardly surprising, since I had studied geology in the 1970s and worked for fifteen years in the British Geological Survey library. I had the idea of collecting some of these poems into a pamphlet, with notes on the geology preceding each poem. The poems weren't necessarily about geology, but earth sciences formed some kind of trigger for the poems. I self-published the pamphlet in 2005, but it's long since out of print. A revised version is available on Kindle, as Mementoliths 2.

This poem is about the Five Sisters shale bing at Westwood, near West Calder. The distinctive shape of the bing is a feature that's being preserved, as most of the other West Lothian bings have been removed for industrial uses. But it's also about the shale mines within Calder Wood, which were open and explorable when I lived there, although they've since been bricked up.

20. Oil shale, Mid Calder

In the woods behind our home in Mid Calder the Linhouse Water cut through an outcrop of oil shale, a black and fissile deposit of curly carbonaceous claystone, laid down in lagoons. In the 1850’s James ‘Paraffin’ Young discovered you could cook this stuff, yielding a good quality mineral oil for lamps and heating. So naturally, a mining industry started up. In the beginning, the rock was mined where it outcropped, as in the Linhouse Water. Open adits were driven in from the streamside, and the shale was removed by stoop and room working, leaving pillars of rock supporting the roof. It’s quite scary, but I’ve gone in about 500 metres into the workings without coming to the end. A sobering thought, that the big beech trees of Calder Wood Park were somewhere above my head.


Five Sisters

Dry shale’s a slippery medium;
platy flakes of calcined clay
slide over each other
as I launch and leap
down the bing’s steep slope.

Heels dig deep to stabilise
on each long jump,
lunging further
than an Olympian can.

A sense of balance
becomes more important
than a sense of proportion;
fun outweighs gravity
and son-flanked father laughs
as all three skelter to the base.

The long trudge up
to the tip’s top
is an Everest epic
of back-sliding and step-kicking,
and it’s a relief to reach
the five-way summit
for the next downhill slalom.

This stuff was hewn
in oil-shale’s heyday –
retorted and refined
it lit the lamps
and oiled the guns
to blaze at Kaiser Bill
in Scotland’s first oil boom.

The waste, the waste of it all,
a red ton per barrel, tipped and piled;
flat-topped clinker mesas sat and waited
for the road-making boom to come.

Mostly shifted now,
Contentibus bottoms the by-pass,
and Addiewell’s ‘Reserved for Nature’.
But Westwood’s left, the red skirts
of the Five Sisters preserved
as industrial heritage,
now the industry’s gone.

Bing-jumping’s finished too –
my knees wouldn’t take it –
and my boys are men
and moved away.
I wonder if they recall
these pink hills of childhood,
these mountains once mined,
this discarded debris
in a paraffin playground?

Copyright © Colin Will 2005

The Hiroshima poem

It's now 70 years since the first atomic bomb - Little Boy - was dropped on Hiroshima. This poem was published in Daemon 7/8 in 2005. I read it at an event in Glasgow on Hiroshima Day that year. By coincidence, that was the day my friend Robin Cook died, and it was Tommy Sheridan who told me the news, at that very reading.


Peace and quiet

In the newsreels it’s always silent;
in-sucked dust heats to incandescence,
molten beads fountain, pillar up,
a dirty eruption. Shock waves
squeeze steam out of clear air
in annular clouds. Close-ups focus
on the boiling glow, the head,
a roiling rotisserie. Roasted birds
fall from the sky. On the ground
trees, petals, pets, people, puff
to vapour in a roar, a scream
we can’t hear. On screen
Enola Gay drones home.

In a warm autumn, shinkansen zips smoothly
through the countryside. Hinoki forests yield
trunks for torii. In little fields, clipped lines
of tea bushes suggest Versailles for taste buds,
stooks of rice straw smoulder in smudge fires,
and crows foregather in persimmon trees.
Train windows, triple-glazed, cut out outside sounds.
We’re in a steel speed capsule, streamlined,
hurtling serenely to Hiroshima.


 Copyright © Colin Will 2005