The byres are coming down, to be replaced with new ones. There are workmen on the far side of the roof. I sit drawing, listening to their conversation. ‘Aye Christmas is coming.’ Starlings on the wire, geese in formation. ‘I’m in the wrong place yet again’. Crows, shotgun. Angle grinders golden stars, ‘….sparking like fuck up here’. Each corrugated sheet is removed. ‘See over there, there’s someone sitting on that pile of rubble. They’re wearing red and there’s something white. Thought it was fuckin’ Santa, man !’ ‘What are they doin’ ?’ ‘I’m drawing’, I shout. ‘She’s drawing’. ‘What’s she drawing?’ ‘All of this’, I say. ‘Uh huh?’ Silence. Stillness. Shatters. Screech of metal on metal. ‘I must have magic hands, ma brain doesna ken when they’re doin’ things’. The cold seeps and sits on bones. I stand and stretch. Daylight is dwindling.
Oil and graphite on panel – 84 x 72 cm.
Oil on wood with text – 46 x 64 cm.
You picked a fine one. Take some apples if you want, there’s plenty.
At the edge of the pond a birds nest sways in the crook of a branch, it leans right out over the water. I used to live by the sea lying awake listening to the waves roar, fearful. In dreams the house would float far out to sea.
Wind skites the surface, a row boat slowly spins and there at its bow a cormorant
gothic, mythic, glorious.
It stretches its wings as wide as the pond,
whin, haw, haglet, craw,
blackie, phasie, doo.
The burns all around here used to be full of fish. Mind after work going out with my rod. Now they’re all gone.
The sky darkens and squally rain blatters the grassy banks making it slippy in wellies.
A kestrel hovers for a moment and wheels away to the north.
Off for a day of health and safety.
My knees are buggered now see. Stuff I used to do when I was young. My ain fault. A rope around your neck, pulling out an engine. Ha, daft eh….
I take a bite of an apple and pull a face watching the music box bird take flight
singing its song for winter.
Charcoal on paper – 53 x 38 cm.
Its knobbled bones poke through,
worn down by wheel, foot, hoof.
Under the carpet, all but forgotten, the road to the kirk went this way once.
See along here,
carrying coffins, prayers, sins, song.
Age old rhythms far away now, faint, the edges of memory are brittled with age. Yet still the groove can cut the rug, crackling, spittling to life when the needle touches skin.
One two three, one two three,
dust rises and falls.