Jane's Writing Shed.

The flint-sharp cry of a buzzard out of a yellow sky the black bolt of a skua steals food from terns the sky rips open the beach an open hand a giver and receiver viper's bugloss a snake remedy with woundwort-pink buds and fish-box blue flowers the sky releases its fire wave upon wave of gulls are summoned bellies illuminated like lanterns the moon turns its dark side towards earth its prow towards the sun

All summer we have been watching a family of gulls bring up three fledglings. We overlook the nest site on top of the Harley-Davidson garage opposite King's Buildings (Edinburgh University) and one reason we became so keen to observe the birds' progress was that one of the fledglings had clearly injured a wing and looked much weaker than its siblings. Phoning the SSPCA Wildlife Rescue Centre gave us hope although the kindly Wildlife Officer was very clear that unless the bird fell off the roof and someone was able to put a box on top of it they would be unable to rescue the bird in such a potentially dangerous situation. However she did say that sometimes young injured birds can heal themselves. After several weeks of observing the gulls and watching the injured one gradually gain weight and strength we we still full of uncertainty as to whether it would be able to fly. The other two fledglings had progressed from fly-jumps across the roof to get food from the very attentive ad...

How fanciful to think the bird with the jink in its wing the dark winged gull we watched out for all those weeks has sensed we're here as it flies over the allotment as we net apples and pick blackberries unmissable looked out for gull

If you had known how fine your feathers looked as you pecked amongst the sedge and hellebore how spectacular your eye how comical your raggedy appearance when in moult a comet in slow motion feathers drifting and ruffling against the wire of the pen if you had known little hen about the wiliness of foxes

I said, I love you. You said, we're not really related are we? I said, well I married your grandmother so we're all part of the same family. You said, like we're both human? Can you read the book now?

As he scraped remnants of flesh from the carcass of the dead pilot whale, Trevor spoke of whale sightings and death accumulations of fossils. Once he had seen an Orca pod steal up on a RIB full of Antarctic tourists, he'd gripped the tiller and stared hard into the eye of a killer whale. A man whose arthritic hands now pulled wires tight through the bleached skeleton, fixing it to the whitewashed croft wall: a whale leaping into its own shadow.

I was delighted to win the Wigtown Poetry Competition (Main Prize) with Eel Ghazal in October 2012. A brown eel caught itself on a casually thrown hook, Anguilla anguilla where are all the marshland glass wrigglers? weir and dam,net trap and poison you slithery boy as tricky as a spiv closing in on the next deal. Brown fen lurker,yellow canal threader,green mud swimmer, an elusive thought slipping in and out like a rumour. Surreptitiously you respond to an ancient voice, the Sargasso pulling you back into its mysterious stillness. Only your offspring return,catching the current - eel breed,eel feed for all your lives, for all of your long dark lives.