It’s beyond the day after
and the aftermath does not add
to our joy or our laughter
but summons our pain
– reminiscent of infant earache –
underlying, intensifying, uncontrollable:
screaming for a solution to take
the bitter taste of the pill
from our hearts, our minds
suffering from our brother’s ills
– awaiting a dawn after the night –
in the muddy ruins of twilight.
What is this? A passing place
a space with room to manoeuvre
and remove the prospect of collision
not the correct space for turning
but if that yearning be pressed
it would pass
A pause, a glance
something heartfelt that you can’t articulate
the deadweight of a stone
in the belly of the wolf
Neil Gunn basking in the sun
waiting for the warm deception of the sun’s rays
to tempt the passer-by out of their stone-cold hibernation
into the hard morning frost.
The ray of light that broke the cloud departed.
I descend; the pace increasing, the pulse
steadying after the shock.
Sat in its shadow as evening draws a close on the chapter
I survey the soaring ramparts, searching for the return
that will never come.
A joyful ache takes away the pain as I sit
staring at the pieces, pondering the next move;
upward glances marking time
in the silent lullaby of Liathach’s lament.
Some recognition of the work that goes on behind the scenes to make a hill race happen. Last year’s Slioch Horseshoe features in the latest edition of The Fellrunner. One of many great photos documenting the race by Phil Hindell.