The Coming of Columba.

A letter about the loss of one faith and the start of another.

 

The witch died below the Sky Rowan and I, the saint, rejoiced. The wind played its stringed solo around the bodies of lichened rocks and hanging petrified trees. Crow, caw laughing her into wilful beyond. Seeing her light soft dark wishes slowly melting back into blackness. The old ways raven rotten now and left  hanging in her heather fashioned gibbet.

Curses left bird flying blind. Wanting the saviour's targets but lacking the lines back to life and so fading. Cloth and fetish hanging from bent naked knee stump. Fox head roaring and weasel tail whispering across these lighter moors under a mackerel scudding sky.

Black priests war beating water filled drums calling the faithful in metal coloured rings to oblivion's prayer. Frightening the mountain spirits into rest. Tattoos stained on forehead tonsures. Straw pigs rolling in muckle joy at these losses. Worship the witch wishes never to have lost.

Singing to the skylark and flocking the finch into these spells of sudden squally mountain rain. For spells they are, gaining on me, giving me my final rest. Count then the quills on the Blackcock. Shoot your goose fletched at the blue mountain hare. Cry the lonely diver, black throated and red hearted. Follow the otter to its silver moon touched isle. Touch the dragon scales on the silver trout, flinging it finally into an arc of sudden light. Shout the clarsach bardic songs at the leaping deer coming across buried hummocks and bog witch bodies. Aged in usqubae leather belted history.

Look for the threefold death and put the objects used beyond any use before offering them to your brief gods and stinking water.

Fight flight flame and windy breeze calling railing light across this mountain's dire summit. Crawl on your ripped knees to worship newness without the effort of old dog sin. Dig the antler pick into aged peat, burn the rest through the roof hanging of swaying weed and floats.

Illuminate your prayer pages. Gild your graven idols. Marry your pretty painted patterned woman. Place your fertility over the doors of your convent. Bury your Kings only on this holy island with its virgin sand and strangely Roman glass coloured sea.

Count your dead facing east so I may rise into the face of his sun. Light on the sea.

Author's Note

St Columba brought Christianity to the island of Iona off the west coast of Scotland and thus to the rest of these isles. A sky Rowan whose roots don't touch the ground is magical. The Black Throated Diver is called a 'Loon' in other parts of the world.. Its haunting cry is heard quite often around lonely places. A Clarsach is a Celtic Harp. Usqubae or Uisge Beatha is Whisky. The photograph is mine and was taken on the Ross of Mull near to Iona.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

' Fox head roaring and weasel tail whispering across these lighter moors under a mackerel scudding sky. ' So many lines, phrases i could select but for me that paints a rich yet fleeting picture. Your language creates true atmosphere and emotion, tis almost as if you belong there, have walked the place, inhaled and lived from that long time past. I know the place to which you pay homage .. your words are reverent.

[Emily B]

i can imagine the voice bringing the words to life, beautiful as always

[Donald Meikle]

Gawd! I wish I could paint like that! I loved every word Ken and wish it hadn't happened. Christianity aint no blessin' mon.

[roarke]

Wow. So rich and what a stellar photograph, terrific eye.
this piece has a Wiccan ring to it, and more, the Druid bard extolling eons of lush nature and supernatural enlightenment. This piece also exhibits a bit different tone for you, challenging, maybe a bit caustic.... the energy is palatable. I'd have to quote all of the piece if I were to quote a single line. Ken, you are a multi-talented artist I'm grateful for your generous sharing of that talent.
Daring understatement, BRAVO

[Ed Hart]

we don't have the magic, not like that...over here, the farther north you go, the more the old tribes have it, but they're not telling anyone...in our cities children think magic is pulling a rabbit out of a hat...you have to cross that cold ocean to get a cup of the real ale, and sit where witches walked to slowly feel the rumble, and maybe you can put down roots

[...]

. the photograph is as stunning as this breathtakingly consuming piece of writing ... the visual transitions that happen as you etch images ... are an ode to the God of details ... the journey from "See her light dark wishes slowly melting back into blackness." to ... "Crawl on your ripped knees to worship newness without the old sin." ... is riveting ... i have a million thoughts in my mind about what happened, what else might have happened and how ... and then the end ... somehow ... liberates infinitely ... "Light on the sea." ... what an exquisite line and what an exquisite end ... there's much that you give to the reader through this piece ... and that's precisely what it feels like ... (that last line) ...