A Walk and the Looking. Second Letter to a Dead Lover.

Another iteration.

The rain. Horizontal at one time across the glen. At right angles to the direction of the valley. The wind is like the engine of some colossal ancient machine. Or the rumbling voice of a dragon living atop its glittering hoard deep in underground legend.

There is a saying in the islands, “If you don’t like the weather, wait fifteen minutes”. Each glen, it seems has its own micro climate and the geography as it climbs from the deep indentations of the sea lochs gives several seasons complete in any day.

 

Yesterday I spent a long time studying the inland loch behind the house and its mood changes. From calm and still mirror of all the colours of dark.

(Find beauty and be still, remember).

Where the wildfowl draw their silver white arrow heads through the dark lirr.

(The wind chopped small waves that just touch the shoals as they skim, changing colour, across the surface. Like the fur across a cat back.)

To the white capped evangelist storms that seems to bend the water into fantastic leering shapes and monsters.

 

If you separate the loch from its surroundings you get an abstract painting of fantastic colours and intensity. But true separation is inherently impossible in this nature.

The geometries of the surrounding landscape are reflected in cake like layers.

The ochres of the dead reeds. Exactly the colour and patina, varnished on the still water, of the guitar I am listening to.

Bleeding yet slowly into the sap rising willow. Stick bending patterned and almost purple in growing colours.

Then the larger deciduous trees hanging with the intricate almost leaf like moss. A subtle and beautiful jade that I find it hard to put a name to. An illusory green that is almost the colour of an exotic beetle back.

Beyond and amongst that the deeper velvets of the pines, spruce and fir. Rising high and wavering in reflection. Adding three dimensional Victorian tones. A bass line of colour.

Finally, the mountain with its own earthy pallet of warming colours. Deer back and marten fur. The wine we drank years ago and heartwood browns.

 

All this is punctuated with life. The colours of a Goldeneye head. Velvet smoking jacket emerald and the most subtle of nap changes in the dimming light.

The white grey of the heron back as it flies cup winged and legs dangling from the low willows.

The tawny owl that rests in daylight in those same willow and whose colours exactly match my brindled dogs back.

 

The puritan Rook parliament have built their nests in the top of one tree. All is clamour and busy housework. Members returning constantly with materials to increase the sculptural engineering of their untidy homes.

 

The buzzard couple continue in mating flight across the tops of the trees. Also looking to rebuild and refurbish nurseries.

 

They must be changing the fish trays at the smokery down the river because the otters suddenly appear porpoising through the flat water. I think a mother and two kits. They almost appear to be sitting, seal like, in the water; only bobbing heads showing. Waiting for scraps to be thrown.

 

The rain comes again across the loch towards me. Making this what the Irish call a soft day.

 

After a clear night.

 

I walked in the dark last night. I walked away from the house, along the road and then up the mountain. All the time looking upwards.

The milky way was a star filled sky river overflowing.

The moon a thin sickle cutting the dark, shining on falling water. The only bright points on the hillside. Moving quicksilver.

The sky was lighter than the ground and it was difficult to orientate myself.

 

It is easy to talk to you about the full darkness outside.

 

Large shapes, sheep or deer, moved away from me in the darkness.

To use the word darkness seems wrong. It implies an absence. This darkness was full. Of sound, of touch, of taste as I opened my mouth wide to feel the landscape around me as an animal might.

Shape and form were lost or diminished to the point of invisibility. As was colour.

It was a feeling rather than a sight. Blue/black bird back seemed to feather touch my skin and then fall away as I moved. I could smell and hear the hill fox hunting somewhere ahead and above me.

 

 I will sleep out here soon.

                                  

          

Author's Note

The image is mine and is one of the four lochs in my glen at dawn in winter.
These are rewrites of articles published in various nature magazines. With different emphasis and different meanings. Variations on a theme perhaps.

Reviews

[andrew mitchell]

With the variable weather you painted I couldn’t help thinkof the Hounds of Baskerville. It had an atmosphere like you were watched, you were not alone. Sometimes I suppose these landscapes can appear inviting as they are creepy. Anyway a fine write Mr. Simm.

[Ken Simm.]

Thank you so much Andrew. hope you are well in these strange times.

[Robert Trakofler]

I think I would like to sleep there too Mr Simm good sir! Oh but to look through your eyes what a pulchritudinous pleasure in prose! in your hush lush palette of blackness that reveals so mush color in the obscurity I try to write of this on occasion but i fear i always lack the skill to give it justice... perhaps only the eyes of an artist can truly capture the obsidian spectrum

[Ken Simm.]

You are too kind to me Robert. I'm sorry I've not been around so much recently but I have been busy painting and preparing for exhibitions. I will be back soon and I will send you the latest painted effort also.

[Einstein Noodle]

vivid scene in the first paragraph .. especially enamored to the DRAGON ;-O the little asides in () work well says i! its kind of like a poetic travelogue ... i think this one reflects the top o' yer game sir! how an artist sees ... and how a poet shows ... especially like the attention paid to the fullness of darkness (not moral or spiritual) but forest ;) and how you ever can look up in the night ..take in that "scape" .. and walk at the same time I will never know :))))))))))))))) makes me dizzy and fall over ... enjoyed this very much ... almost satisfies me want to visit the Highlands ... thanks for sharing dude!
E.

[Ken Simm.]

You would be more than welcome if you ever wanted to come Gene. thank you so much for those terrific words. Wishing you well.

[Einstein Noodle]

back at ya brother! :)

[Relic]

These are really amazing descriptions, Ken. I look out everyday and see a bland blue sky and houses. You see...heaven. Your talent for making us see what you do is a testament to your skill. Excellent writing.

[Ken Simm.]

Thank you so much Relic for those great words. I am honoured.

[barleygirl]

Part one (the other poem with similar name) felt like more purely poetic imagery to me. This next part (this poem) seems to have some cerebral reflection which knocks us a teensy bit out of the sensory realm, from time to time. The other poem is pure poet waxing, whereas in this one, I feel the pedantic school teacher creep in here & there with an "explanatory" tone, rather than simple paint dabs sans explanation. I'm not saying one approach is better than the other, but I like the other poem better. From this point onward (in this poem): "I walked in the dark last night. . . . " -- I felt this poem became more compelling as we followed your physical meanders in our minds (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Ken Simm.]

Thank you for that Margie. sorry you didn't like this as much.

[Lorry]

Sadly 'tis true re the weather, which is why we all carry backpacks with the appropriate attire of each of the seventeen seasons we have. And horizontal rain is just natures way of checking that you're fully awake 😀
You mention all of the things that make life here feel kaleidoscopic at times, with shadow and light in an eternal dance tthat changes views on each seeing.
Billy Connolly said the first time she saw Glasgow, she said "Daddy, why is the sky so low?"
We all know what she meant.
Easy to see why you're still here Ken, to capture the majesty, but I'm sure there's a sunlounger on Montego Bay with my name on it 😀
Sterling work once again Sir.

[Ken Simm.]

Thank you so much dear friend. Definiton of a Scot so I've heard is a person that is homesick whilst he is still here.

[Lorry]

Yes, just stick on Frankie Millers Caledonia and your Scots dna is turned on to full power 😀

[Neville]

as long as you can write like this, maintain that artistic eye of yours and have film in ya camera, you should have absolutely no problem making friends, getting published and ... well I dunno .. just enjoy being alive sir ... another masterpiece ... superb l say n truly :)

[Ken Simm.]

I don't know where my thanks for this great review went Neville but happy am I to do it again for those great words. I've come over all bashful.

[Coyote Poetry]

I love your stories. Nevil Shutes is one of my favorite writers. I have re-read his work and I wish I could write description, like him. When I read your work. Like Shutes's work. You take me with you and show me a new world. Thank you Ken for sharing the amazing story.
Coyote

[Ken Simm.]

Many thanks John and for the wonderful comparison.

[Coyote Poetry]

A town like Alice and At the beach. Classics, the children need to read and you are welcome Ken.