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

Integrity, my dear, integrity.

The difference in the water level
Can be accounted for when the underlying
Level of the rock that you cannot see
Is considered.
The difference in the balances on the
Accounts can be explained by a lack
Of continuity underlying their
Maintenance.
The difference in people is less explicable
And it is hard to find any explanation
Or account that can illuminate the
Dark hearts of those who wear blinkers
And refuse to see the stark reality
Of everyday life.

Perhaps, just perhaps, time will educate
And more people will come to see that all
We are is people, we're all
Jock Tamson's bairns.

(c) 2ndwitch, 15/03/17

Falloch

It fell as rain, tears from the clouds, or as
Snow perhaps, soft flakes of sadness, blanketing
The winter ground, and touching the pine needles
With gossamer wings as it passed.
It slowly dripped from branch to branch,
Passing down towards the pine-barren ground
Below, and then through peat a slow seepage,
Until the burden it created was too much for the
Hill to carry, and then it flowed into the stream,
And started a journey past reed and stone,
Down past dyke and track, growing ever
Swifter, and press-ganging more to join
The river now, as it chattered and splashed
Over rock and grass, past trees and
Into the valley of pools and falls.
A torrent now, grown of the land it
Traveled through, and it crashes over the
Lip of the falls, a cascade into a deep,
Peat-dark pool, cold and unrelenting
Onwards to the loch, whose arms are
Open to welcome every cloud-tear-drop.


(c) 2ndwitch, 28/12/16

Hiding a tree.

Take me to the desolate place, where no man goes,
And let me sit and gaze up to the hill.
Take me to the place of rock, and summer-living snows,
Where I can stand in silence and be still.
Let me taste the wind that whips the spring-fruit rain,
And let me feel the velvet touch of night.
Let me drink the endless wine of autumn once again,
And let me set the endless wrongs to right.
I will ride the winged horse, and fly out in the dark,
And I will run and breathe the starry sky.
I will dance with dragonflies, and sing songs with the lark,
And in the golden light of sunrise I will die.
Across the hills, and through the vales, let the eagle soar
And carry wordless voices on a sigh.

A single wing beat floats, waves crash on the shore
And with soundless raindrop-tears I softly cry.

© 2ndwitch, 02/08/15

Ghosts.

When there is time to think, that is when
The day becomes soft, and grey, and fades
Into a colour of oblivion.
The small sounds, the glimpse that catches
You unawares, those are the things that
Have the greatest power to hurt and
That we cannot avoid, however
Hard we try.
And we try.
For each and every moment is another
Moment of battle, another battle in the
War that never ends, from now
Until then, whenever then may be.
Then, a destination, a place in the future
Or perhaps a shadow of yesterday,
That hovers over any one of us,
A raincloud of tears and recriminations.
The shimmering dancing wavering
Branches imprint on the water
Sunlit in waves, and tempting
The watcher to drown in unknown depths.
A wingbeat of time, a heartbeat away
From death, and calling for the
Greying of day into night.
A cool breeze that caresses with steel.

© 2ndwitch, 13/03/15

On the first day of March.

Sighing song, on the wandering wind
That plays with each step on the waterside walk.
Taunting tune, haunting and ethereal,
Reflected in the clouds that shroud the hills,
And veil in mist the vagrant view.
Raindrops that run, inexorably, down
The walker's neck, and settle soggily somewhere
Below the chin.
The whispering waves, washing
The shore, and sending shivering shimmers
Of water to caress the roots of the trembling trees.
Yesterday was winter, soon spring appears,
And the mad March winds will buffet
And toss the lingering dead leaves, and the
Drooped and dying grass into a
Frenzied swirl of the distant promise
Of summer.
But for now
It is winter with nature and me.

© 2ndwitch, 01/03/15

(Some time back, I found a version of the Robert Tannahill poem 'The Braes O'Gleniffer', I must have had the copy for ages, but had never 'listened' before - it is the last track on one of Ivan Drever's albums. He is a good singer, a superb guitarist - and he has nailed this song totally. I was walking along the shore of the loch, north from Firkin Point today, and the words of it came to mind for some reason, and so the last line of my poem is kinda stolen from RT and ID. I would love to know more - like where the tune is from (ID being a composer of note it could well be his) but feel it would be impertinent to ask! Or sycophantic - and I hate sycophants!)

Without permission . . .

Cold and clammy fingers that creep and caress.
Feet that tread, slowly and surely, across the ice.
Trees with white-shroud branches.
Shrubs bent, weighted with winter.
And then there are the footprints in the snow.

In the dark hours, when no-one but the moon
Is watching, comes roving the fox, hunting
In the starlight, and passing under the windows
Unseen and unheard, but leaving the mark of passage.

When the sun rises, the silver-grey-steel shimmers
And draws lines across the landscape, cold
Water and snow-lapped shores, together
Marking the season's progress.

Cold hands, gloved but chilled, clasping
The hot mug of tea.

© 2ndwitch, 21/01/15

Resolution.

Slow sliding steps, a somnolent shuffle
Towards tomorrow. And tomorrow.
A sideways slip, sneaking and sidling
Into a new dawn, a new day.

But the sun still rises, and the moon
Still crosses the star-sky,
And the cloud tears fall time and time
And time again.

The wing-beat is measured,
The bird glides to earth.
And the stag stands, startled
And alert.

© 2ndwitch, 05/01/15

The path the badger trod.

Have you ever wondered why?
Just why - when you see a mother
Look down at her child
And smile.
Just why - when one person looks
At a another with
An expression that words
Cannot define.
Just why - when the wild birds
Fly, and land, and fly and land
Again
And again.
Just why - when the waves wash
The pebbled shore twice
Each day,
Whatever the weather.
Just why - when the leaves grow
And grow and then
Die.
Just why.
And then you realise.
That is why.

© 2ndwitch, 04/01/15

This wounded land.

Moving on, stepping through treacle, head bowed
And no view to the distance.
Only today, and in today no pleasure, grey skies
And steel rain drops crying for the past they
Have left behind.
Rubble, bricks broken, and bent metal rods, with
Pieces of wood reaching an imploring hand
To find the help and support that will
Never reach them.
Sad trees, dew-dropped branches, dipping
Tiredly towards the dead-leaf-strewn earth
At their feet, and unable to move old
Roots, no chance of moving on to
Warmer climes.
The water, lapping out of time, touching the shingled
Shore, and retreating again and again, pleading
For a kind word, but
It never happens.
Songs that should be hymns of joy, instead
The funeral dirges of hopes and dreams,
And the grief-ridden notes echo long
And haunt the ears of the
Struggling man.
And still, plodding on, dragging each foot in turn
Free of the treacle-tug, and slipping and falling,
No hand hold.

© 2ndwitch, 03/01/15