Movement

 

 

 

       ‘…..everything, is rhythm’

                                             (Foli).

 

     The Loch here atop the glens of Scotland,

         boasts new life I never saw before,

  the loch has the ripple of fish, and bird beating

     wing upon the waters,

   the calls of those I never heard whence last here -

  give my eye of shine an indication that,

         it is not lost but, returning to say again, hello!’

 

          I take a solemn stroll to keen my thirst for all

  we take for granted and for a moment,

     I suspend my knowledge that the trees -

  only have a shallow horizon beyond the hills

        ‘we venture.’

 

     The track boasts mushrooms and rock,

flora of natural candescence,

  the spores of other beings that perhaps

     a man, a woman can envy.

 

     There is a freedom here,

Golspie lies South and to the near North,

  there is Wick, and John ‘O’ Groats but,

     they are only labels when the breeze has my

        lungs fill with something more than

             the fume of fuels.

 

     The silence is tremendous,

voluminous and warm;-

  a curtsey and a kindred,

     a friend the city can never look within the eye.

 

     The brook takes my gaze to the chasm below -

my loving footfalls and I stop to brief the source,

  and there,

    there,

       there………………….

 

     I mount a rock, grey and smiling -

to gain a better picture but,

   there is no movement in still life for;-

 

          ‘this is real!’

 

     I am gasping at the river meandering

casually - their journey below as if,

  ‘no employment problems here bro,

       no laboured wheeze at all.’

 

My stand,

Our stand,

Our avian and red,

   have not the time to call a quarrel,

      not a watch to wear or a glib like token of desire -

          upon the rock as the vision tears my eyes;-

                I look about for the first time ever!

 

     Beneath the tree I caress,

above the leisured flow the river takes below,

   I catch the comedy and joy of heather dancing

      to the droplets of life that water has bestow,

          upon a patch no more than five feet square

               the tines and petals of the Scottish Glens Of Heather

                    laugh in joy as the droplets bless each one.

 

         ‘they know I am here by their side, but such is their joy they -

              laugh in turn as the slowest rain has them dance a ‘free’ of life -

                    and care not if I say hello or not.’

 

   I could laugh with them,

       I could laugh at myself for being wise when not,

            I could be all of a multitude of memes but none for,

                ‘I am with them now, at leisure with heather; tree, fauna flora and………..’

 

                   “it can be yours to write one day, and never destroy!”

 

Michael J Waite 2nd of August 2024. Brora, Scotland.

                                                                                         ‘Bless.’