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.
Maelstrom
skin and flesh are imperfect vessels for the maelstrom at the centre
at random
bouts of anger burst forth
tears, anxiety
yet the spinning won’t slow
barely contained by physical reality
I bounce like Tigger just not as cute
nothing is cute about me
not even the pink nail polish
so all that remains is to shout in bright colours and poetic forms
lest you fear the wounded child grown
into a woman with tallons as sharp as her pen and poignat as herself-loathing
fear not the artist but the art
for it can destroy silences
Wintering
When cold clings to your bones with painful fingers.
You go for a lunch-walk to watch the sun set.
The clouds shroud so heavily you can’t tell if it is day yet.
Dark tendrils enclose your space the ceiling light fights a battle lost.
The steam from your soup bowl fogs your vision.
Hard rimmed bread softened in salty broth.
A warm hug and friend’s presence brighten the grey day.
There is no such thing as too many blankets.
Wrapped up like a porcelain doll ready for shipping.
Only the nose and eyes emerge; clouds of breath hang over our heads.
Laughs muffled by thick scarves.
Our steps crunch on frozen ground or kick bursts of snow into the air.
We enter the house with much exclamation and stomping of cold feed.
Rubbing numb hands, and shaking off the frost as if we were still fur covered beasts.
Warm blankets snug around the body lest any air touches shivering skin.
Book in hand, a hot cuppa, and a candle the night may fall now—again.
+++++++++
I was invited to write a contribution to wintering in academia and became stuck half way through my essay and ended up writing a poem. … of course
The Holly and the Oak
Obsidian vines strangle the last light of day.
Hungry fingers stretch across the sky devouring dying embers.
Stars, phantasms of ancient fire, bear witness to the battle below.
A wooden throne cradles the dying king.
He lost the battle during this longest night.
His blood saps into fallow acre.
Nurturing the frozen soil so it may come to life once more.
Humans have arrived to celebrate the kings.
Slowly the warmth of their balefires brightens the night.
Sounds of song soothe the dying king’s soul,
As his contenter lifts the sword unsheated.
And thus, blood, fire, song and sword bring forth the reborn sun.
OOO
My out of office is on.
I made it by the skin of my teeth.
Literally.
Yesterday.
The dentist said I just need to relax.
My out of office is on.
I collapse on to the couch.
Literally.
Today.
You got us bubbly and I am too tired to hold the glass.
My out of office is on.
I have no plans for the next three weeks.
Literally.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I might make art, or snooze, or watch the clouds.
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
Replying to Sara L
That’s it.
I think.
No knight on an exhausted steed rushing to the rescue.
No benefactor pulling notes of worthless tender from fat pockets.
No, nothing like that.
No meaningless gestures.
No empty materialism.
Your touch, every time you pass me by.
You alternate your path just for that.
Silly dancing half naked on a sunny Saturday morning
Cajoling loudly to song.
Cuddled underneath thick blankets the dome of fairy lights
Painted above us by Night.
Autumn: hot chocolate in the garden
Before the last hours of work that day.
Storm battled adventures under canvas.
Bringing you coffee first thing every morning.
Cooking me birthday breakfast on the beach.
Swigging champagne from the bottle in a mountain hut.
A thick pair of gloves you knew I would need them.
Unexpected snowstorm we waited out with hot tea and chocolate.
Arms wrapping around each other tightly.
Holding hands while sleeping.
And so in Love
We safe one another every day.
If you do not know the Poetry Cove yet go have a nosy and join! I participated in the chap book writing month so have a lot of poems to share here but then the semester began, and I managed to slip a disc and things went a bit haywire for a while. Catching up and will schedule some more poems soon.
This one was a discussion we had after a love poem prompt that we found challenging. Here is my response to the inspiration by one of the participants.
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.
Poetry by Nathalie 