Beyond Merlin Crag

beyond Merlin Crag

a glistening Aradaidh awaits

the broken sky as breathless as I

plodding rather than prancing

up the rough track more

usually travelled by machine

bumping and jostling

its cossetted occupants

wp_20150119_20_43_34_pro

 

Advertisements

Symphony

A wild moon threatens the still

spruce silhouetted on the skyline.

The shadow hound stalks at pace,

scent marking his territory at will.

The owl screeches, wise to the time

whilst the seeker whistles prematurely

and a mother barks warning her kind.

The haunting echo of the distant roar

taunting the neighbouring balladeers,

a prelude: the percussive climax to come.

wp_20160916_20_34_14_pro

Bursting

Finding my line is all well and good

but it does not help to flood

my lungs with the oxygen I so desperately need

to feed my blood

so I can soar away from the pain and succeed

rather than bleed and sink gasping

grasping for some hope and some sign

of a glorious descent

and the line drawn by another

WP_20160730_12_27_58_Pro (3)

Liathach

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.

WP_20160423_16_34_44_Pro (2)

Behind the scenes

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.

Fellrunner photo

Cioch Mhor

Six months on, they came

never would it be the same

but still they came

greater and stronger than before.

They did not file like Owen’s cattle

but stampeded past them and their shit

a fertile ground for all of it.

Working like ants, downwards

and onward to their baptism.

A short-lived blessing in these pressing times.

And now the burning season through the heather

the weather holding but brooding and befitting.

In ones and twos and more the procession reaches out

and reaches, a turning point.

Pants and grunts and curses, smiles and laughter

some walk, some stop and some canter

but for all the banter (as is befitting)

one voice is heard, by a tearful ear,

“Alex brought me here.”

 

WP_20160326_11_56_10_Pro