Knarled legs with pronounced sinews.
Remind me of the ancient hawthorn
at the Roman fort.
Swollen knees akin to burls bend as we sit companionably next to one another.
We watch the boys in their kayaks.
Fishing for pollock far out in the bay.
The third one on the look out is the great seal.
Wondering who mucks about with his dinner.
The old man was up from Yorkshire
I believe
Always loved hiking but he has to use the poles now.
‘My knees, you know? I need to take them now.’
I show him my Nordic Walking poles. ‘Family history.’ I add.
We both nodd in understanding and watch the seal pop up.
Curriously trailing the boys in their kayaks.
We laugh.
Someone is worried about their dinner.
The summer sun warms our skin.
Marram grass almost silver in the bright light.
Diamond sparkles on ripples in the sea.
He tells me about his family. The call of sea birds.
Category: Nature Writing
Snowstorm
Mittens cautiously hold a steaming cup
Hot sweet tea and chocolate–the secret formula
We huddle leeward behind a boulder
White-out rolls over us like an angry dragon
Your eyes crinkle mischievously
A frosting sheet breaks off my bandana
Storm tugs my outer layer
Yet the dragon’s talons can’t reach me
Snug as a bug in a rug I am
Thick insulation sheet: we can sit on the ground
It’s big enough to wrap us both in an emergency
A rescue helicopter is circling climbers on the north face
You offer a chocolate bar and I swap you tea
Our ascent only needed shirts and I wondered if we over packed
When lugging all that stuff up the hill
I smile at the ice dragon and sacrifice a sip of sweet tea
Definitely not
Scottish mountains are like that
Never underestimate the power of your elders
Even if their smiles are tooth gapped and worn
A laugh bursts forth I barely catch it above the roar
In response I spread my arms
A sliver of blue breaks through the furry of crystals
We watch as they slow their dance
The dragon goes back to sleep
I remove my snow goggles and we grin at one another–untamed
The new bird feeder
A biophilic forward operating base
In the midst of seasonal modification
The airborne unit is in recce mode
New targets were installed at 1400 Zulu
Bluetit is the first Oscar Mike
The tiny sortie checks go/no go for IP
And flatters nervously checking for bogeys
His friends chirp: buster for target!
And finally he makes contact
Hover in flight refuelling before a fast RTB
Such is the urgency around the new birdfeeder
This still needs some work. We were joking that the songbirds keep using the camelia as a FOB so I wanted to write a poem that reflects the urgency and excitement around getting to the snackies all the while avoiding the sparrow hawk.
Why do buzzards sit in the field?
Note: this is written as a spoken word poem so get your rap on! I will attempt and upload a voice recording later.
Did you know buzzards have FOMO?
You can watch them moving in SloMo,
On a soggy field far from Soho.
Rat girl summer is over Fosho.
Buzzards just wanna kick-it.
Choosing mud over thicket.
Picking worms is the ticket,
Seeing others chum a big hit.
That’s how the crowd begun:
They flew over mates having fun,
Stagger through mud like RayGun,
Hunting for worms on the run.
Background story
In a field close by, usually over the winter, we observe dozens of buzzards gathering, but only that one field! There are none (with maybe the odd exception) in any of the other fields, although the conditions appear to be the same. So some digging through forums has unearthed that buzzards indeed gather based on seeing other buzzards already sitting in the field–hence the FOMO (fear of missing out)!
If you are like me a bit too grey around the edges for the youth slang
FOMO = Fear Of Missing Out
SloMo – Slow Motion
Fosho = For Sure (feeling like the cool aunt as I learned this from the nephew)
chum = is not just fish food but also hanging out together
Kayaking with Otter
The only sound are gentle drops, running off my orange paddle, hitting the salty waters of Loch Eishort—a North Atlantic bay in the Inner Hebrides. I sit motionless in my kayak watching the sea haar silently flowing over the hills, sinking into the ocean. As above so below mesmerised when the horizon disappears entirely I hang suspended, floating amongst the clouds. The stories of Avalon appearing out of the mist suddenly make sense. I think; turning around to face coral island—too small to be a mythical land, and yet …
Naddy watch! An urgent shout runs across the water in hurried strides. Two o’clock from me. There is something huge! It’s moving fast.
I suddenly feel vulnerable in my small kayak suspended between the vastness of water and sky. And then I see them—large disturbances in the water. Distances are difficult to judge, I will look it up later and estimate about one mile and a half East of us. As if a huge fish is being chased by an unknown creature, trying to escape with zig zag movements. For a fraction of a second I see something poking out of the water, too large to be a seal head, no dolphin fins, no fins at all. Whatever it is, incredible speed carries it across the bay, going inland. Something is hunting, we agree, and stay well away. Do Kelpies live in saltwater?
Let’s continue across the bay and visit Allt na Peighinn waterfall, we agree. Although curiosity pulls me towards the unknown creature. Not that I could keep up that speed in my steady fat fishing kayak. Disconcerted my eyes keep tracing the inlay for whoever caused the commotion but tranquillity has returned, my nerves settle, and soon enough my attention is forced on territorial terns. Yes, we are wearing base caps, and no we are not persons of interest for the feisty flyers. They are having beef with local gulls and are cheered on by oyster catchers. I am picking up speed, lest the inhabitants of Eilean Gaineamhach Boreraig turn their attention to me.
Finally, the waterfall is moving closer. I check the time it took us to get across the bay. We pull ashore for a snack break, and decide to follow the coastline before crossing over again. J is slightly behind me scouting for fishing spots. When I notice movement ahead. Is this a seal? No too small. It’s an otter! I quietly squeal.
The creature pauses its movement and I viscerally feel attention wash over me. No way did she hear my squeal? She is still too far away to see clearly. But. I know. I just know she is coming towards me. Pause. She lifts her head out of the water, another surge of attention. And off she goes smooth movements snake towards my kayak. Pause. Again. Pop up head. Again. Attention again. And off she goes, again. Tiny bow waves purposefully wash in my direction. I can literally feel J holding his breath just as I do. I don’t dare turning around to check in with him. In mutual agreement we stopped speech, movement, even breath. The water is holding us in place. The kayaks have stopped drifting. And suddenly she is so close I can make out the powerful body slinking elegantly through the water. Pause. Head out of water, curious eyes lock with mine. She dives forward. Yet a bit closer, right in front of me, her eyes lock with mine again. I gasp. Hello, I say. Thank you for visiting with us. She nods, and looks on. Then her tiny ears fold over, and I can see her nostrils close. She dives once more and pops up again, next to me, the other side of the kayak now, eyes lock once more. I can feel hot tears running down my cheeks. An eternal moment.
This is not Foraging
The wicker basket hangs vacant off my back.
The leather straps move loosely across my shoulders.
I am slumped over the hollow pit in my stomach,
As if to protect the rising ball of fury.
Gentle fingers stroke the broken limbs,
Torn stumps of frayed wood-fibre.
Sap bleeds with silent screams from a dozen wounds.
A sob violently ripples through my body.
Hot tears fall onto cold wilting leaves.
“Leave no trace.” Opa* taught me.
“Your foraging should go unnoticed.”
I bent down and pick up a broken digit.
Before I survey the clump of damaged Rowans.
Not even green berries are left here,
Leaves and limbs carelessly discarded.
The disregard a visceral vice around my skin.
Eventually the ball of fury escapes as hot curses:
“May this pain return to you seven fold!”
This is not foraging.
Hands on rough bark, salt mixes with sap.
*Opa = Granddad in German
“A blizzard descends upon a town”
This was our writing prompt from the first session with Cathy McSporran
He tumbles down the street, ice cold anger, burning hot rage; some of this becomes stuck in the small cobblestone alleys; where he rips off shop signs, and freezes window panes until they crack from the arctic chill. People tumble like leaves; hoods, and scarves held tightly with both hands, they fight against the rage, bend over–standing upright is impossible–yet they push forward. Shelter is so close. So close. A woman shouts above the howl; trying to tell her husband she found an open door. Yet all she sees are blurred shadows; snowflakes are slung at her face and eyes, so hard that the tears keep running. She cannot see her husband. He cannot hear her. With all her might she pulls the door open; it smashes close behind her. All of a sudden there is silence. And now her tears stream on their on volition.
Meanwhile, he keeps howling, raging, hauling microscopic ice shards at everything in his way. One goal. One goals only. That building up on the hill, the highest point, in this small town. Granit grey with coloured glass windows. He can see it; despite his rage blinding everyone who is caught up in the anger. There must be reckoning. He screams now as he heaves his full might at the building. They have angered the ancient ones.
Along the Path
They stand guard, tall presence, evanescent permanence. Centuries, and decades, carried them through storms and heat, snow, and hail. A haphazardly thrown together wood pigeon nest visible now that the canape of leaves is thinning. I can feel their hum, soundtrack of a silent silver-lighted evening. Maple, birch, beech, elm, ash, rowan. Scots pine with her gnarly branches towers over hawthorns’ crooked and knotted bodies, arms reaching to shape elder futhark runes. Othala holds all. Twisted limps, adorned by thorns and blood red pearls. Unlike the elder striving up and out as straight as can be, the last of their night-sky velvet booty beckons the tentative forager. Elfen ears such bright spots of orange early in the year, are floppy dachshund shaped and coloured now—just not as fluffy.
I breathe-in autumn and the ever present pulse, breathing out tension and arrhythmia. Step by step by step. Breath, by breath, by breath. Pause. Exhale more. And more, until the last of this breath is gone. I gulp, swallow, drink the humid terpene laden air, the smell of petrichor heavy on my tongue, my lungs expand deeper, wider. Don’t pant against the tightness, just exhale—even further—until nought is left. And then trust, trust your body as the reflex demands expansion, of lungs, chest, diaphragm. Trust the breath of life, trust the guardians—producing oxygen on exhale—trust in your feed moving forward. Step, by step, by step. Breath, by breath, by breath.
*Elfen ears are mushrooms not sure what their actual name is this is the name I know them by
** There is indeed a hawthorn whose branches are shaped like the rune Othala along the path
Maple Tree and Wren
He is complaining loudly–the second smallest bird with his proud straight tail feathers, pointing upward in righteous indignation. I know not what has him agitated like this. Maybe neighbour’s cat is on the prowl? The wee black one is an exceptional huntress, bringing down mice the size of her head.
The other birds were fed up with the kerfuffle and have long abandoned their favourite shelter. The starlings settled somewhere in the neighbourhood. The magpies chatter away two gardens over. Robin popped by quickly to announce he is not giving up his territory. Na-ha no way! The blue tits and goldfinches have huddled in for the night, silent sighs form breathy clouds in the cold air.
Although, they settled in the hedge, not the tree, who has given up his vibrant dress. The gold and amber cloth shed for winter’s rest. Barren branches still attract, provide shelter, food, and roost, but are not safe to harbour our winged friends during the dark November nights–when the moon and stars light areal pathways for a silent killer.
Her hoots reverberate within my body, joy rising before consciousness even processes the soundwaves. As much as she brings us joy, as much she bodes danger for our temperamental little friend, who still prattles on. Hush, hush and hurry my tiny agitator, it is time to shelter for the night.
Tide Pools
Tide pools
The receding ocean creates magical underwater worlds.
A temporary present by the grace of the moon.
Palaemon elegans: too pretentious?
Okay then: rock pool shrimp.
Erratic movement entropy as my shadow falls
The claw of crab just about visible hiding in its bed-rock.
Magic bubbles slowly fizz to the surface.
Did you know these underwater meadows and forests of kelp
Create more oxygen than the rain forest?
Don’t dump shit into our rivers.
Poetry by Nathalie 