Hy Brassil and Environs calmed in a Summer's breeze.

A Confounded letter, sailing.

 

Move out of the green, smelling mown, of shoreline hills and onto the water at the edge of every moments history.

The acoustic motes of smooth bright that lip kiss the wavelets of this calmed surface, hiding much. This is the music, this time.

Soay and then Rhum and Eigg in and out, sew the waves and speed through the edges of the dolphin wake following and catching me. Win free with spinnaker speed, into the Minch. The blue summer isles of Somerled's fiefdom reflected.

Blue cliffs of enormous cool tone passing above and behind. A cut dark mirror of turquoise over deep as the shadow falls coldly. The hump of a black rubber whale shooting sea rainbow mist from a sea shaved black shined round head.

A shot sound of bright canvas contrast. Articulation creaks of new rope on shiny surfaces. The cool that feels good blowing south smooth.

Fresh wind that clears tubes and feelings. That pleasantly chills, the whole inside of this body, including, no one in particular.

A black rack of brine wrecked, rubber popped, bladder wrack alive with black hoppers. Greeting the landing on salmon pink rocks pushed through sand like the inner workings of some fresh dead inadequately buried, leviathan. No one else's footprints. No Friday to mar the lonely machair soul.

A beach hoodie grey black crow, working up to and including the corpse of a bay porpoise left here on purpose perhaps? Cannot feel even momentary grief but saved until later, perhaps collapsing.

Now new white yellow, black lined, Gannets fired from an invisible sea gun. Cutting straight down onto the shoals, missing surprisingly every time. Returning to regurgitate in sea vomit mess down comedy pumping gullets in the largest collective smell you have ever seen.

The old ones took their straight lines from this same horizon to build on, in and alter, this sharp clean landscape. Dragon boats came dancing and Duns rose lifting from the washed away cliffs. We then have more than the time to wait and I will, for as long as it takes.

Author's Note

After the mountains the pilgrimage continued.

Reviews

[arbitrary jane]

i'm sure this won't be the first time you've heard this, but your words have all the richness and uncanny intuitive meaning of james joyce. strength of imagery and wind-blown, staunch, and powerful phrasing make this a portrait of a peculiarly emotional connection with a landscape.
'at the edge of every moments history' gave me that same intense love of this place. your details are delicious 'Articulation creaks of new rope on shiny surfaces' and i have been working on using the idea of the sewing motion of the tide. the pilgrimage always continues.

[Nathan Noble]

wow what an amazing write. im lost for words. just amazing.

[SM Davis]

Waiting inside a sea of beauty and wonder for the same to lend way to a drunkenness experienced only by those who share these passions that envelope the senses.

Stunning piece Ken. Simply stunning.

[Ladysue]

Ken, as Emma said...a magnificent view you have painted. Full of life. Absolutely love this lines...beautifully alive...

Blue cliffs of enormous cool tone passing above and behind. A cut dark mirror of turquoise over deep as the shadow falls coldly. The hump of a black rubber whale shooting sea rainbow mist from a sea shaved black shined round head.

Amazing and I think one of my favorites of yours!

[Gandré]

O life of love; now a heaven now a hell. wonderfully tender and dreamy....

[Ed Hart]

when you get around to selling this stuff, don't forget your friends...

[R J Askew]

Love it. Full of natural vigour and wellbeing. Now I feel happy reading it. There is no self-pity, introspection, or abstraction distract from the poetry and drame of the surroundings. The writer is merely a conduit for nature. Having said that there are some great dabs. 'The hump of a black rubber...etc' sentence is a poem of a sentence. And there is something good going on with 'corpse/porpoise/purpose/perhaps' ... like some cunning little drum riff. If you can have a drum riff. I love 'gannets fired from...etc' Some of your best stuff flows from birds, and not poncy little willow warblers, but hoodies, gannets and lapwings. Ah yes, I feel positively refreshed after this read Ken.

[emmajoy]

Waiting in this place must be as near to Heaven as a man can get! What a magnificent panorama of coloured words. Ken, I can see what you're seeing and almost, but not quite, feel those sights, inhale those smells!

You use words like magic air dances: ' The hump of a black rubber whale shooting sea rainbow mist from a sea shaved black shined round head.' .. ' A shot sound of bright canvas contrast. ' .. ' A black rack of brine wrecked, rubber popped, bladder wrack alive with black hoppers. ' Oh, I could go on and on and on... why don't I just say that this is yet another magnificent piece of prose.

You are so often waiting for .. an emotion to envelop you or a person who might do the same. I wonder?

I could read and read your work forever and end up in an incredible world of mystic, subtle corners!