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- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
"On the island of North Ronaldsay; the sea was calm, there was no wind and the island was wreathed in mist"
She is moist, secret, cool
breath of the sea
Her soft touch
Nature's moisturiser
On the naked skin
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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Shells on the Strand
a poetry collection
"the pagan Celts had, in their philosophy, the concept of a perfect island (usually to the west beyond the Hebrides), where there was eternal life, fruits on trees, a peaceful existence, and of course, love and joy."BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 MunichShells on the Strand
Shells on the Strand - a poetry collection
compiled 30/6/13 alastair macleod
These first three mist poems were written when we attended a summer wedding in 2012 on the island of North Ronaldsay; the sea was calm, there was no wind, and the island was wreathed in mist.
Fresterska
She is moist, secret, cool
breath of the sea
Her soft touch
Nature's moisturiser
On the naked skin.
Haar
Birds cry lost in the whiteness
Mariners, groping in the vagueness, could believe
The Kraaken somewhere is breathing this out
From her cold wet lungs.
Mist
Spirit cloth
Winding sheet of the earth mother
Wisping over walls
Plants drinking in the wetted air.
Notes
fresterska: the Swedish word for temptress; sjo fresterska is a sea temptress
haar: the dutch word for fog, literally “wool”
the Kraaken: a mythical sea monster in nordic culture
I started to write as a life affirming act when I was seriously ill and the next poem is about that.
Black Blood written 9th feb 2005
I feel my strength go from me
But the ink still flows from my pen
Like black blood
Fleeing my body
Staining the paper desert
Making an oasis
A palm, a well
A place for birds to rest
And people dwell
I was here it says
I sketched this scene
But many sketchers have there been
Many eyes the desert seen,
Who now are grains upon its breast.
Join us, join us whispers the wind,
Leave off your writing
Stay your hand.
Not yet, not yet,
The ink’s not done
A little longer let the black blood run
My brother has a farm in Argyll called Ballimore; it is a very beautiful area, an upland glacial plateau, surrounded by mountains. These poems were written there.
Ballimore in Winter
Above the lodge
a curl of pine smoke
greets the thin still mist
the highlands stand motionless
A soft rain falls on their coats
black hebrideans nibble at the turf
the burn gurgles with glee.
