Thoughts . . .

As I walk I wonder if you too can hear the
Echoes between the water that flows down the
Leven and the seas that pound the shore at the
Bay of Skaill; the slow ripple that perhaps was
Once a crashing wave, remembering the individual
Grains of sand that it caressed so many miles
Before, and the shape of the shell that rolled
Beneath its landfall, and now just a lazy
Ripple that sneaks between the banks of dead grass
And under the bare branches of the trees
And shrubs along the riverbank.
So long ago the sailors reached Scapa Flow
And settled in relief at the haven there,
In boats built along the Clyde, or at the
Mouth of the Leven.
Like the waves, and the boats, men
And women too have traveled between
The Leven and Kirkwall, the same cheek that
Felt the soft rain of a cold February beneath
The castle rock has also felt the sandpaper
Wind that crosses the Flow and sculpts
The land that is Orkney.
Connections and echoes, all is simply
Connections and echoes.
And perhaps the ardent Scot who condemns
The English voter has forgotten that
There is nothing more than connections and echoes?

(c) 2ndwitch, 03/01/17

Stan Rogers

A few words, a glance, such simple things
That can mean so much, that
Allow the sun to shine when the clouds
Are weeping rain on your world.
So many songs, so many pleas, so many
People for whom love is a reality,
And yet, and yet . .
For so many people that is a dream,
A longing, a pain and a hole that no
Transient pleasure can fill.
Sometimes we have something so
Precious that we are dazzled to the
Meaning and beauty of it,
And we carelessly cast it aside,
And trample it underfoot.
But I am glad he lived.

© 2ndwitch, 15/09/14

By the Clyde

There are days when the sky is just grey.
Not steel grey, no drama, no rolling clouds,
But flat, dull and simply grey. Today.
And on that day I sat and watched the soft sunlight
That sneaked past the cloud, as it played with the leaves,
The leaves that the wind made to dance.
I listened to the birdsong, the harshing call of
The crows, and the insistent chatter of the great tits.
I saw the skeletons of pine cones left by
Hungry squirrels, and saw the golden crested flash.
I walked beside the water, slowly, but steadily,
Pausing to listen and watch, to see the dipper bob and
Dive against the stream, and walking on in silence
That demanded no disturbing words.
On this day there was peace.

© 2ndwitch, 14/09/14