24 Nov 2008




Bone dry the heather. The scent of rotting vegetation. Lambs spill to old bones. Crushed beneath the lowering sky. Gravel grey and ominous. The brush tail of tree walkers. The crunch of pine. Needle prickly and fresh.


Beyond the Loch the Atlantic. Grey flat sky stain. Leviathans tremble. Cold meat for seagulls. Jellyfish adorn spitle tread. A game, a lark, a childhood test. A whisper of grass. A filth of litter.


Hillside crush. A U of rock. History hides. A lodge for forever. A lair, a dream, a memory.





4 comments:

Robert said...

this was a beautiful way to start my Monday morning

TICTAC said...

each phrase, as a stroke from a painters brush, builds a great image and leaves me with a beautiful sensation of deja-vu.

C.J.Duffy said...

Robert>>>Many thanks friend.

Tictac>>>You would love the place. Scotland. Facing Loch Ryan and beyond that ...the Atlantic and America. A beautiful and wild, unkempt place miles from anywhere. The nearest town is seven miles away.

TICTAC said...

i think you are right,cj...i would love that place.
there is a sort of loneliness mixed to sadness some places in Scotland give me and yet this sort of desolation kind of feeling doesn't spoil my pleasure to be there.