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

The curlew's cry.

The wind that stroked the snows of winter hills
And broke that fragile unity of tree and leaf
Comes now to shake the reeds in springbound thrill
And to soothe the sheep-cropped grass's icy grief.
The cloud that crossed the white-horsed Peatland firth
And cast its gentle shadow on the ground
Is dancing now, in grey and white rain-mirth,
And shedding tears that drive this earth around.
The wheel of time our passing turns once, and once again
And winter soon will give its place to spring;
The last dead leaves of autumn are clinging, ill-refrain,
To the temptress song that summer's wandering brings.
Hope is showing now its green and spearing leaves
The daffodil and crocus, and snowdrops, blanket-weave.

(c) 2ndwitch 26/02/17

January.

The tendril fingers of cold stroke
Softly down your wind-kissed skin,
And remind you that many more days
And nights will pass before the
Sun's warmth will chase them away.
The dead leaves that carpet the path
Have stopped dancing in the autumn
Breeze and are now sluggishly
Clinging to the ground, and turning to
A slippery mush in the relentless rain.
The skeletal branches of the leafless
Trees wave in submission to the winter
Winds, and call a hoarse and deadened
Greeting to the first fall of snow.
Evening falls early, and morning is long
In rising, the day dull and thuggish
Under its cloak of steel grey cloud.
And yet, in the growing bud, the shoot
Just creeping through the cold and wet
Earth, the yellow on the gorse, there
Is still a promise that spring will
Not be so long in arriving.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/01/2017

Remembering Eliot . . .

The cold December wind slices through
Clothes, and slowly numbs the skin.
The cold December wind mocks the closed
Windows and drawn curtains, and sneaks
Under the chairs to wind around your ankles.
The cold December wind reminds you that is
The ending of the year, perhaps the zenith
Or the nadir of growth and sunlight, or
The reign of moonlight over night.
It is when that December wind blows, lazily,
And with malice, around your ears and down
Your scarf-clad neck, then is the time you
Are reminded of the year gone by, and of
Those you have lost and will see no more.
And it is when the wind dies away, and settles
Into a soft sigh of frost chilled breath, that is
The time you think of the new year still to come.


(c) 2ndwitch, 13/12/16