Outer Hebrides: Go with the flow

Again this one does not quite fit yet.

drying wet-suits and a grill in the foreground looking over an ocean bay

Discarded wet suits
Drying in the breeze
A sad looking bag of charcoal
Crunched up
Holding the potential for one more BBQ

But not here
Not now
Not on this holiday
ANYMORE

Sadness creeps up
The simple life
Of our ever-so-slightly moving abode
Will soon be packed away
For another summer

August has just begun
But for us the summer is over
100s of emails looming
I have 48 hours leeway
And mentally push
Against the tidal amplitude of work-life

I love my work
But the constant pressure
Like currents in the sea
I have rowed against
Had become too much

I hope my learning
Will last and like my kayak
I will only put the paddle into the water to steer into the right direction
Occasionally
And not dispense all my energy rowing against the swell

I won’t fight
Against the tide
Anymore


Outer Hebrides: Empty 2

Bare rock faces
moss, lychen, heather, hard grass stalks
glacial lakes, loch, lochans

The sky never ending
Meeting the waters of the Atlantic
In a distance hard to estimate

Desolate
Our first reaction
The landscape
Violated
Forced into shape
By layers of ice

Slow death
Creating new life

We see eagles, dolphins, seals
Wildflowers
Insects
Birds

Not so empty after all
Sheep are bleating


Outer Hebrides: Empty

Wide skies
Wide horizons

An eagle hovers
Empty your mind let your thoughts move through

Normally I struggle
But
Here
I can’t hold on
To a thought
To a worry
To a contemplation

Clouds move over
Every changing
Like my relentless thoughts usually do

Occasionally the clouds become stuck
Hovering over the valley between the mountains
Like the thoughts I should let go
Eventually the wind moves them on

Outer Hebrides: The House

I see a house through the mist
You know; the kind of house children draw
Four windows
Door in the centre
Otherwise a rectangular box
With a roof

I wonder: is life in a simple house simple?
No fuss, no add-ons, no fancy ‘wouldn’t survive the winter-storms anyway’ conservatory
Two chimney stacks on each gable-end
The smell of burning wood
Warmth that cannot dispel the slight smell of dampness

If you think about it
A house
It’s that simple, four walls
A roof, some source of warmth, water

I am sitting underneath the canape of our tent
Four walls and a roof of sorts
But we forgot the little space heater
Also our temporary abode sways with the wind
Flaps its wings
It hums a song
I heard too often
‘You cannot escape your life choices.’

But for now things are simple

Outer Hebrides: Gale Force 10

Balranald Campground–North Uist

The weather is merciless
Our tent howls and tries to take off like a chained dragon
The noise of the storm is incredible
A rock concert of sorts

Naughty by nature

Everything moves

Even the athletic swifts have no chance and sit exhausted on a fencepost

The guiding lines vibrate with tension
Or maybe they are shivering in the relentless rain?

Our name sign is tagged into a wooden pool
the place number long gone

36

Thousands of wild flowers dance in rhythm of the gusts

A seagull is blown past the tent
She barely manages to stabilise

Summer in Scotland

I wear my woolly hat
And socks mum knitted for me
As I take in deep breaths of salty air
And listen to the deafening production

Stories–a poem

A poem lingers in the back of my throat; scratching my vocal cords like an angry cat.

When I close my eyes words dart across my lids like alarmed starlings from the cherry tree.

The rhythm of words pulsates through my veins, like the bass from a subwoofer.

I hear the echoes of stories wanting told, wanting an audience, needing out–into the open.

Every cell of my body wants to tell stories; for in stories we live, we learn, we join the past with the future.

The library is too huge, large, enormous, endless, eternal, ethereal, intangible to crasp but the stories must be lived.

Are you in the right book?
What story have you chosen?

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: