Carved out of one of my favourite poem making techniques: writing a piece of prose (in this case, about the journey home) and then cutting the lines up (literally) and moving them around, with further chopping if necessary, to form the shape, feel and sound of a poem.
The weather has been wild recently, with gales and torrential rain.
It’s also been really dark; I know this goes with the territory at this time of year, but the (blessed) absence of snow and ice so far has meant less of the bright light and sunshine-on-snow that I’ve enjoyed over the last two winters.
I was uploading some photos to Flickr the other day and realised I had a set which captured quite nicely the mood and feel of my favourite local walk (a circuit from the front door, by the edge of the river, to a waterfall, back along by the hedgerows).
I thought you might enjoy a peek into this beautiful corner of the world in the late autumn – when the oaks are still golden, just before the leaves really start to fall. Continue reading “Late Autumn Galloway Photo Walk”→
It reminded me of something I read a month or so ago about landscapes flirting with us – sending out signals that demand and invite an appreciative, admiring response.
I can’t now remember where I read this – I’ll need to track back through my recent books borrowed from the library to find it. Unless of course any of you are familiar with this idea, and who might be writing about it? Continue reading “The Flirtatious Landscape”→
The day is still, and warm, and it starts to rain as I walk, just a summer mist at first, kissing as I walk.
The hedgerows wave, rich and abundant, in the hardly a breath of wind: bramble flowers showing off with their pinkness and their whiteness, the first raspberries peeking out, wildly raspberry red, not yet ripe but tempting, regardless.
Grasses wave in the hardly a breath of wind while the field of the buttercups teases in a shade I do not know: cream, vanilla, earth, yellow, golden, the colour of a painting, the colour of abundance, the colour of the grasses, dancing on the machair, the colour of this butterfly buttercup field, moving, slowly, in the hardly a breath of wind.
Birds call with the the breath of the wind: oystercatchers flashing down the river, swallows dancing above the grasses in the fields, by the hedgerows rich with clover where the bees buzz and flies sing with the softest breath of summer.
By the river, the rain becomes heavy, torrential, and I shelter for a while beneath the trees. The leaves move gently, not with the hardly a breath of wind, but with the rain, falling splashing kissing, smoothing the warmth of the air and the stillness of the summer’s day, sultry, and still, with hardly a breath of wind.
I found this quote during the week: happy co-incidence – it fitted so perfectly with a word that has been playing on my own lips as I walk by and notice the unruly, outrageous wildness of the hedgerows in this harvest season.
Exuberance is really the only word for it. Yes: exuberance
an overflowing amount; an outburst; an abundance
Used to describe an exuberance of content of fancy, of foliage, of happiness, of imagination.
Yes: the word is perfect.
And although sometimes I find it hard to capture the look of abundance in the hedgerows, there is something about this time of year that draws your eye in to the detail, to the specificity of the plants, ripening, and the season, turning. It’s a mixture of colour, thickening