A long summer sun shimmers across a field of oats. Thistledown floats past large white butterflies, and up above a pair of juvenile buzzards ride the columns of rising air, circling, lifting on thermal winds. Looking over the bridge the sun smoulders holes in the burn, the leaves of the trees reflecting like a filigree of moth eaten cloth. My skin tingles with nettle stings, a reminder later on that I was here. Gorse seeds pop in the heat and all is nodding, all tremulously shaking in the afternoon breeze.
Friend and writer Rebecca Sharp’s poem ‘Thaney’ has been selected for the Stanza’s poetry map of Scotland. Click on the link to read it. It came about from a painting I made about the scottish story of Thenaw, a princess, pregnant out of wedlock who was thrown from Traprain Law, but survived to give birth to a son who would become St Mungo.
It is a beautiful poem and I am so chuffed it made the collection.
Ravens, waterfalls, Schiehallion, rock, beetles, lochs, slow worm, bracken, hare bells, Buachaille Etive Mor, and cherry bakewell tarts.
Bay of the stranger, bay of the churches, bay of the promise, its gaelic meaning disputed. In this small place a chambered cairn, a standing stone and a township cleared in 1828 to make way for a sheep farm. Willow and alder flank the edges of the burn. Sheep folds, kail yards. The walls of houses, their corners rounded, give way to thresholds marking the comings and goings of families. Not gone away.