While butterflies sleep, there are moths to be woken…

The butterfly rebellion is not dead. Through the hope and activity that has sprung in the early days of the ’45, only the most foolish of foppish unionists could believe it to be so.

Hope over Fear Rally, George Square 12/10/14

Yet, although it is not dead, in its current incarnation, it did not work either. The beauty of our inspiring and empowering movement may have won the hearts, minds and admiration of the many, but it did not win their votes. - At least not in sufficient quantity to effect the change in our country we all wished to see.

On the day of reckoning we turned out not to be a thousand butterflies, but 1.6million, strong beating, determined hearts, raising our voices high in defiance – but it was not a gun they sent against us - it was a cold arctic wind of fear and doom. We knew well how it would blow, but in truth we did not understand the grip of its cruel cold fingers on the hopes and dreams of those who were not yet ready to spread their wings, and join our journey.

So we must look, and look again. Not only at those who wished to extinguish our candle of hope but at ourselves – at the very nature even of what we understood ourselves to be. 

Perhaps, we are not butterflies at all – not yet at least. Perhaps that cold, cruel arctic wind has a lesson for us. Perhaps, the winter approaching is a chance for us to look north once more.

For as we feed furiously on the fallen fruits of our autumn harvest, as nights darken upon us - in the cold dark deserts of the arctic winter, it is not a butterfly, but a caterpillar that slows down its struggle and comes to rest. Despite its best efforts, its frantic foraging, its hopeful intentions, the unforgiving northern summer was not long enough for it to achieve its goal. 

The Wooly Bear Caterpillar

The ‘Woolly Bear Caterpillar’ remains un-cocooned, not yet ready to fulfil its purpose. The winter that now approaches will stop its heart and freeze its blood, but in the dying days of a gathering autumn, there is still time yet to find shelter from the harshest winds. Under a rock it will stay, more dead than alive through the darkness, ‘til in the spring it awakens once more - one more miracle in a world that gives up on its dreams too fast.

In its young state it will go again to the fight, feeding on whatever it finds, fuelling itself to face fire or thunder - but still when autumn approaches, its offensive will not be enough. Once more it will seek out its sleep. Once more it will silence death through slumber and once more it will surface in spring to strive again. 

How many times this brave little caterpillar launches itself against the war of the arctic seasons, is impossible to tell.  Perhaps a decade, perhaps more, but its struggle is remarkable. Against all odds - against cold and dark and near death itself - one spring morning when the time is right it will pull all the strength it has gathered through many hopeful summers and spin its cocoon. For it is not a butterfly, but a moth. An Isabella Tiger Moth, that once it is ready to hatch must act quickly to secure the success of the next generation.

Isabella Tiger Moth

So too, must we be ready - but first we need to ask ourselves if we were truly ripe to hatch at all. Our preparedness to spin that cocoon had nothing to do with how hard we foraged and grew over our summers of exertion. Neither did the mighty strength of the unionist storm provide an impossible foe that we can never defeat. We can defeat it and we will - but our greatest test is yet to come.

We must not judge those whose hearts were touched by the icy grip of fear. For it is not our place to judge but to understand. Only then will we find a way to thaw that grasp, to send spores of hope into the wind that blows against us and bring the others we need to the fertile meadows of aspiration.

The winter which closes in now is not the end of our rebellion. It may freeze us, but not to death. The frenzied gathering underway in the galvanising of our movement will see us through to the spring we long for - but it may take many winters yet before we are strong enough to pupate.

Still -  it is not time to sleep just yet. Before the sun fades, let us waste none of its warmth in the sorrowful truth that we must winter once more with our wings not grown. Let us sprout to our last breath before our slumber. For with each new member, we feed a new dream. 

Let us be tigers, moths, butterflies and cocoons unspun.

 

Let us sleep nourished - that when we wake, we may rise ready to live what we dream at last.

Our own special and very hungry caterpillars. Not yet grown but feeding on the hope that those around them have determination to create a better world in which they can spread their wings and truly fly.

Ode to the Falkirk "Yes Gazebo"

We bid farewell to our Yes Gazebo

For two years plus, our warmth placebo,

That’s sheltered us through wind and rain,

Guarded our hopes as we tried in vain,

To bring enough people towards our dream,

Believe in a vision not harsh and extreme,

Yet full of hope - which still remains,

That we now take forward to seek new gains,

In a quest for a country that’s fair and just,

For the sake of our children, we know that we must,

BUT not with you, our trusted friend,

Your spokes and bars have begun to bend,

As you’ve watched conversions to Yeses from Noes

Between nipping our fingers and stubbing our toes!

To the next generation we’ll make our case well,

But dear old Gazebo, you’re starting to smell,

So we’ll pack you away for the very last time,

No more will you listen to Steeple bells chime,

You’ve snared your last bungee & dripped your last mess,

But we swear to your memory – the next vote will be YES!

# And here’s to you, Mr. Robinson #

For National Poetry Day....my 'hour flat' poetry challenge....just for fun ;)

(Scroll to the bottom if you really need the translation!)

# And here’s to you, Mr. Robinson #

On this braw day o’ poetry,

A sang ah’ll sing tae the BBC.

O’ how ma life has changed fir guid,

Since a’ took the step that a’ ken’t a’ should.

Tae pay nae mare fir its half sourced lies,

Edited nonsense an’ fearfu’ cries.

‘Cause a dinnae care fir yer state owned crap

An’ am no greetin aboot yer weather map….

Naw, it’s aw thon pish ye spout most daily

Tae mak our folk feel dumb, BUT gailey,

Fir there’s aboot as much truth in the brothers Mitchell

As whit the Queen thinks told by Nicholas Witchell

An’ Nick Robinson, who the heck is he onyway,

Makin an ‘erse of himself on th ‘economy,

Nah, feck off, an’ let us think fir ourselves,

Gie us AW’ the sources so WE can delve.

Cause despite whit ye think, Scotland isnae daft,

So stop crushin’ oor hope wi’ yer evil craft.

Gie people credit an’ let US decide,

Tell us the NEWS but dinae misguide!

So until ye do and stop wi’ yer guff,

For me an’ the bairns, enough is enough.

Sure ah’ll miss ma Strictly Come Dancing,

Hours o’ ma life stripped o’ near naked prancin’!

But ye ken whit, ah’ll no be deprived o’ Peter Capaldi

Fightin the daleks an’ gee’in it laldie,

There’s ay a way tae watch efter online,

Wi-oot riskin the curse o’ an awfu’ fine.

Wan problem remains tho’, an’ it’s quite a glitch

Cause, obviously am a MASSIVE Cumber-bitch

An’ a cannie wait mare than a meenit or twa

Til ma man Benedict swoons on, aw’ braw.

SO SORT IT OOT!!!! Cause no case he’ll solve

On an hour’s delay, will you absolve!!!!

By Christmas next ah’ll no behave

If a’ve tae watch wan mare thing on bloody DAVE.

Let the guid folk ye’ve got rise tae the tap

Stop fillin’ yer airwaves wi’ vacuous crap,

It’s no like we’re askin’ fir total perfection,

Jist listen and act on oor objection.

But ken, if the price in the end o’ ma non-conformance

Is tae demand fae Benedict a private performance,

In ma livin’ room…o’ the Sherlock script,

Jings, there’s nae danger I’ll be tight lipped.

So fix it up an’ fix it quick

Get yer fing’er oot and mak it stick,

If ye cannie, ye ken it’s the end o’ the party

On yer ‘erse Scotland’s going aw’ Moriarty ;)

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On request (and despite this rather burning my poetry soul) I have translated the best I can below. Not for the benefit of our much loved and respected comrades across the Southern Border of course, but for some dearly loved international lost souls, to whom I can never refuse anything. I hope it still works!

# And here’s to you, Mr. Robinson #

On this great day of poetry,

A song I’ll sing to the BBC.

Of how my life has changed for good,

Since I took the step that I knew I should.

To pay no more for its half sourced lies,

Edited nonsense and fearful cries.

‘Cause I don’t care for your state owned crap

And I’m not crying about your weather map….

No, it’s all that sh!t you spout most daily

To make our folk feel dumb, BUT cheery,

For there’s about as much truth in the brothers Mitchell

As what the Queen thinks told by Nicholas Witchell

And Nick Robinson, who the heck is he anyway,

Making an arse of himself on the economy,

No, f@ck off, and let us think for ourselves,

Give us ALL the sources so WE can delve.

Because despite what you think, Scotland isn’t daft,

So stop crushing our hope with your evil craft.

Give people credit and let US decide,

Tell us the NEWS but don’t misguide!

So until you do and stop with your guff,

For me and the kids, enough is enough.

Sure I’ll miss my Strictly Come Dancing,

Hours of life stripped of near naked prancing!

But you know what, I’ll not be deprived of Peter Capaldi

Fighting the Daleks and “gee’in it laldie”,

There’s always a way to watch after online,

Without risking the curse of an awful fine.

One problem remains though, and it’s quite a glitch

Because, obviously I’m a MASSIVE Cumber-bitch

And I can’t wait more than a minute or two

Until my man Benedict swoons on, all…oooo

SO SORT IT OUT!!!! Cause no case he’ll solve

On an hour’s delay, will you absolve!!!!

By Christmas next I’ll not behave

If I’ve to watch one more thing on bloody “DAVE”.

Let the good folk you’ve got rise to the top

Stop filling your airwaves with vacuous slop,

It’s not like we’re asking for total perfection,

Just listen and act on our objection.

 

But look, if the price in the end of my non-conformance

Is to demand from Benedict a private performance

In my living room…of the Sherlock script,

Gosh, there’s no danger I’ll be tight lipped.

So fix it up and fix it quick

Get your finger out and make it stick,

If you can’t, you know it’s the end of the party

On your arse, Scotland’s going all Moriarty ;)