Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long.

Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long
And felt the sun caress my shoulders with its heated blanket.
I watched the white butterflies dancing, and heard the lazy
Buzzing of the bees; I felt the velvet coolness of a gentle
Breeze, as it whispered its encouragement into my ears.
Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long.
In the distance I watched the strung out jewels of the cars
And coaches that travelled from Arrochar to Ardgarten,
And from thence up the long slow climb to
Rest-and-be-thankful. They glowed in reds, golds,
Greens and blues in the clear sun-washed air.
Their engines were the bagpipe drones to the high
And insistent call of the soaring buzzards.
Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long.
I trod with care over the rocks and boulders that
Winter water had tumbled and tossed on the track,
And dodged and jumped the puddles and streams
That still remained on this spring-soon-summer day.
Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long.
I saw the reflected peaks on the still waters of the
Patient loch, rippled only now and then by the memory
Of the winds that only weeks ago carried rain, snow and
Ice across the surface; I saw the loch, deep, mysterious
And blue with the light of cloud-studded sky.
Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long.
As I walked I saw all round me the intrusion of man
On nature, and all around me were the bandages of
Healing that nature in her turn provided, the water, rock
And stone, the heather and the grass, the mossy cushions
That cover and repair the damage done by heedless man.
Today I walked along the hillside above Loch Long, and
As I looked south to the sea I realised that there is still
A slender brightly shining thread of hope in this bleak
And terrifying tapestry that we call life.

(c)2ndwitch, 17/05/2018

A futile plea!

I want to see smiles when I walk in the town,
I want to hear laughter and banter and joking.
I am sick of the everyday face and its frown
I am tired of the way all that is good is now broken.

I want to stand should to shoulder with men,
I want to feel proud of the people we are.
I want to hear positive news once again
I want to know peace in this world near and far.

I want to feel safe wherever I walk,
I want to know all men are happy and fed.
I want to listen, and to be open to talk,
I want every person to sleep sound in their beds.

So an end please to profit, and to greed and to pain,
Let's all work together for contentment again.

(c) 2ndwitch 02/01/17

Monochrome.

There are days when the longing for what once was
Overcomes the pleasure in what is now.
There are days when the times gone by sing their
Lament in your ears, and block the sound of the
Soft day breathing. There are days, there are days.
If you have never loved, or never lost, then you
Cannot know the same days.
You will know days, you will ignore days,
Some days you will cry with a pain that was born
When neolithic man walked this earth, and
Will find that pain unbearable, and so sharp,
And so cold and so hot, you will know those days.
Others will know other days, when the softing light
That filters through the silken grey of winter clouds
And caresses you with ethereal limbs, and strokes
The warmth into a chilled submission, and when the
Memories engage in a macabre dance of death,
Those days will seep into your heart, and sap
The hope from your very soul.
The days when the longing for what once was
Is so strong that you feel yourself bending and
Breaking, your roots are torn free from solid ground,
And you are tossed on a torrent of grief and regret
That crashes and roars and carries you unwilling
All the way down to the infinite sea.
There are days.

© 2ndwitch, 06/03/15

Reflecting.

The light of snow-cloud and rainbow-sun danced
Across the wind-tossed waves, and touched the trees
On the far shore.
Silver-grey plated hills deigned to stoop
And kiss the winter-watered loch.
And a robin darted and bobbed on the barren branches.

Memories of summer days hovered, just out of reach,
And the ghosts of evenings round the campfire
Sang soundless songs to the winter air.

A phantom sunrise taunts the winter afternoon,
And promises that this day too will pass.

And this day too will pass.

© 2ndwitch, 21/02/15