This is the raw material for a possible long poem as collected day by day when staying in the Highlands town of Newtonmore ... I was there for a few weeks and with the specific intention of creating poems (and hopefully a long poem) from walks there. So I was gathering lines each day and blogging them daily... Let's see if they will turn into a poem or poems?
I'll post next a tidy-up of this material, before I think about how I may be able to shape it or parts of it into a poem ... any ideas as to how to do this appreciated!
2015
6.189
8.vii.25
black faced
Newtonmore – Strone Walk
stones turn to
sheep
and back again
sheep are the
colour of sky
fungus stumped
flowers of wild
money and the old
vans left
the milk white
lambs
and black legs some
brindle mottle
roof stoved
all these clouds to
fall
black fleeces too
and bleat away
a plaint
the unseen pigeon
llamas or alpacas?
– you tell me
horse and two
donkeys too
the shearing is
today
2016
6.190
9.vii.25
in meadow wilds
and a walk in the woods
at Newtonmore
insect summer
a weed brush
track to mud and
back
rill stream
stones ground round
from the past
here’s breeze from
another season
the northern marsh
orchid
birdsfoot trefoil
goldenrod
kidney vetch
mouse ear hawkweed
– cluas luch
who wouldn’t love
what’s in these words?
not faroff a
fuckwit
keeps shooting at
the birds
2017
6.191
10.vii.25
the Coffin Road
on the Wildcat Trail at Newtonmore
where stood the
last Gaelic sign at one time
summer is walking
it narrows the
track
hoof smooth, stones
of the way
or mossed to tell
raspberries along
the way
all the air’s alive
spear thistle
bell heather
common sundew
heather bright rush
of the burn
the road and the
train and the RAF for soundtrack
budding spring so
harebell
heath spotted
orchid
upward the
adventure of trees
and in among low
birch
the old hut circle
… fence down now
whose ancestors
were these?
the seat we sit
two names
now together with
the view
all this sad
religion
dead flowers for
freshest graves
summer is walking
it narrows the track
all the air’s alive
spear thistle
bell heather
common sundew
harebell
heath spotted orchid
Trudge Weary and the
thistle
in among low birch
the old hut circle
… fence down now
whose ancestors were
these?
2018
6.192
11.vii.25
at my own pace
on foot to Kingussie
receiving what’s sunshine
attempting thoughtless
to make my own rhythm
will the world keep up?
luck spending
a way and wherever
aimless as able
under the map and by beech leaf turn
(that’s just to show a breeze)
village edge bleat
under my own steam
to the squirrel hill come
here’s highland lumber of the sheepdog
cow
cloud of flies up close
and there’s the path’s dead rabbit
distance is the town
as flightless as the next I am
propelled by just the occasional fart
it’s not shoe leather anymore
it’s some petro-carbon these days
with just some hills for company
just some floating clouds
as if by the book
it’s at my own pace
the craft with which I go
2019
6.193
12.vii.25
the dragging of the heels
a sheep flow by the River Spey
midge stillness too
day grassed over
a headful of hay in these horses
vanished stream but hear it
flowers of the wild
now summer shining
tufts of sheep here there
barbed fence rubbings
bees attend flower
voices fade from
the path brings a river back
this one is the Calder
warm shallows and quartz inscribed
each stone a world shaped
island at least
speckle stones and glitter too
come dry to rest past the rain
some like eggs
from which burst forth
the lambing ewes as signed
where a sky’s as grey
a moon float Kandinsky
ekphrastic for Kandinsky’s 1927 ‘Sharp-Quiet’
what is it we see through?
where are you in all this?
have to lock yourself out of the world
dream up the light arrested
no one can tell how the orbit is
flattened
what spins off
how some shapes float
some might land
how does a picture relate to time?
by virtue of a wish now lost
some shine
in a tight cell
in our own weather
sometimes call daylight
it’s as if we are almost
where we all are
the colours only if you see
defend us by these means
2020
6.194
13.vii.25
the bracken way
by Loch Gynack
Kingussie to Newtonmore
past the ruined mill, through dell
burn beside
old walls now mossed
hands’ witness
up Creag Bheag
the raspberry way
summer leaf, pigeon high
tall pine too
heather chicken
flee on foot
come into the open then
exposed
there’s all the moor
distant vistas
I prefer the woods
sunlight uphill mottling
shade and breeze my friends
long dusk
undercrunch gravel
and then
book open so I
fall in with the lines as they fall
stop to hear the bees
2021
6.195
13.vii.25
lines from a stray breeze
a meadow crossing
here’s calligraphic distance
shadefolds of crag
such clouds as find us – the anvil and
the rag
up close
thistle and wild grass
little bridges of the marsh
underbranch
dungwhiff, the overripe bloom
shadow patched
a view through rust
to the sandy bottom
things land on me here
they take off again
years more than we count
lie wrecked all around
we grow over too
meadowsweet, angelica
honey scented hours
though we are walking away from
a sun here follows us over
hear the weekend marksmen
turning creatures into game
unfortunate machinery
keeping our wilds at bay
lines from a stray breeze
a meadow crossing
calligraphic distance
the thistle and the wild grass
shadefolds of crag
where the world dries out
little bridges of the marsh
underbranch
the anvil and the rag – such clouds as
find us
dungwhiff and the overripe
things land on me here
they take off again
for other worlds
years more than we count
lie wrecked all around
and we grow over too
shadow patched
a view through rust
to the sandy bottom
meadowsweet, angelica
the honey scented hours
though we are walking away from
a sun here follows us through the day
hear the weekend marksmen turning
creatures into game
unfortunate machinery
keeping our wilds at bay
2022
6.196
14.vii.25
at the old hut circle
grass now where was human strife
poem is the map I make
it has these hills
the gates to lock
breathless climbs and summer sweat
steps to take
the yellow broom
pinks of bark and lichen grey
shade copse of birch
leaves turn
watch footing
wonder
how did they come here?
why, where did they go?
and the sheep all this while
the leafing undercrunch
a quern for grain to grind
this was a twigsthrow sky
eyes up, see clouds resting today
every view’s out to the day that was
each look-in’s this heart run
clouds inching on if you’ll stay
it was the sheep knew what they knew
they’re not telling
the underhat for summer
ask a wildcat where
2023
6.197
15.vii.25
Loch Insh
pudding weather
the wind on the water
reeds dividing
sun shows the two ways at oars
weather upstairs
dungsides and pinespeak
a painterly place
mood revealed for a view
then off again
headhigh passages in bracken
bluebells from the uproot
the steady willow wave
drama of tresses
you see how I’ve not quite forgotten
the people
though that is why we’re here
often will pass like ghosts
they see right through me too
trifle time
it’s almost as if one remembers
the land was this shape already when
a wander off, a forking in the mind
there’s no midge dares this wind
call the wild swans to worship
they still belong to the king
a while since – was it the 11.45?
it’s almost through all of the day
steel rails in their silence shine
an outlaw for the crime of being
2024
6.198
16.vii.25
Jamie Macpherson
hanged for an Egyptian and traveler, 1700
Fareweel,
ye dungeons dark and strang, fareweel, fareweel tae ye
– traditional
bagged like a cat with a blanket
thrown
so unsworded from
robbin’ the lairds and loving the
crofters
bastard outlaw from birth
his enemy the sleekit Laird Braco
toff with a grudge
who set the town clock on
when the messenger with the pardon
come
at merkat cross
here’s more alive than any there
condemned for the crime of having been
born
a tune
a rant at the foot of the gallows
and how many times?
how many will deny me now
come to see, to hear
condemned to hang for the crime of
just being
and no one for my fiddle? no one?
I’ll smash it to splinters then
2025
6.199
17.vii.25
òran luaidh
(waulking song)
the women call and come after
Hoirean ò hi ri ìthill iù
Ho ro hiu ro éileadh
Hoirean ò hi ri ìthill iù
– traditional
mind for skelfs on the table
it’s most of the sun shone
and down through time
dawn dusk out of the otherwise day
they are translating the cloth
by wash, sing tweed the table round
with gossip, so much reputation
out of the mattering, this does
a kind of pride to sing –
the spinning, the weaving, the dyeing
too
all the before of these inches to
tighten
the rent from this, the pennies for
need
they are passing along
hearts pour out
to sing the men whaling, the men at
war
spring blooms, hills in lamblight
here’s the silly goat, croft climber
stale piss to add now
and pick up the pace
top of finger to the first knuckle
that’s how we measure the tightening
too
a peatsmoke choke
sky high as blue
climb up to the sheiling
where secretly a heart is pledged
rough hands
love told too late
daft boy
the lamb in the grass
in the singing all round
and that’s your winter warm
bothy
some objects
flails and scythes
a cruck frame
oats for quern
out of the choking peatsmoke
black house, soot bricks
eyes adjust
a mattress of heather or straw
chimney and hearth, the world from
there
coracle on my back
two, and a net between to catch
the curling on the little loch
straw walkers
a Quaich of whiskey
a toddy ladle
‘lecky no tilly now
the loungeroom’s colder
the dad’s stool with the Bible under
a string across the knobs on the
cradle
will keep out the cats and the fairies
there’s an animal end and there’s ours
.
Jacobites
hiding in caves till noose tamed
a fair stranger
Ossian’s Fingal
in a grey world
it was in the time before time was
there was a king of ships
now here’s the blond bard’s hall of
mirrors
a garden of flower and stone
some say that this is a folly
that the water flows all ways at once
if I am a lie then well woven
we see the ghosts of all before
we must imagine what they’ll say
and each man kills the thing he loves
there’s no one else around
mist lifts from a vanished land
it’s ruins as far as we see
2008
6.182
1.vii.25
in a stone circle
at Machrie Moor on the Isle of Arran
heaving grief
tired as fear
a hard man
terrible
here’s respect!
we place it here
the crouch of bone
elk and auroch, boar and fox
these all whom he brought down
man of stone
strong armed
here’s his face on yours
here’s hate and tender too
by a sheep ridden ruin
by the dung rusted byre
a wall of were
the clover overgrows
by power of death alone
we work
and the big man is planted
to the underlife
all this stone we’d heave
we’d haul
and more
another mile we’d haul
to keep the fucker down
2009
6.183
2.vii.25
sad old things
dust gathering
and how we’re home
like words we forget still were
jugs upstairs
all their underparts
words ringing round with toil of us
mad hair and how to comb?
cupboard scuttle too dark to explore
things left and things forgotten
rubble under
rich with lost wishes
old harvest to scythe
all kinds of rust
moonlight lost
a topple of fences
day unshaven
even till last joy
all become
even again
and we’re stone
2011
6.185
4.vii.25
so golden, so green
ekphrastic for George Henry’s 1889 ‘A Galloway Landscape’
there are no colours in the wild
but tree for cloud for cow
sky worn with its turning
lank grass cropped
the burn away
read the shade
there’s not the clock to stop
it’s over the hill
a tunnels end yellowing
the artist makes ghosts of the
breathing creature
there’s nothing like this on Earth
there are no such afternoons
but here’s a little stillness
all heads turned towards
just so we are observed
2032
6.205
24.vii.25
eking and out
sheep’s eye view
on mist day, cloud day, bucketing day
on thin spit, in the blinding
sheep all sing
its bleat against bleat
who? plural!
in hill fleece and sky
the run and tumble
a bounce along – so we
by ewe, by ram, by wether
and colour up out of a storm
knit
bleak, so you’ll say
but we stand it
some of us sidetracked
often outfoxed
and then there’s Sunday dinner
a crook in the fold
you might make a religion of this
it’s blade by blade, the eking
shear me now, else summer
we all
rhythm of dale, grass to sway
sing down to the shore
and some say ‘sea’
we others snore
and whether or not you’re listening
sheep all sing
on mist day, cloud day, bucketing day
on thin spit, in the blinding
2033
6.206
25.vii.25
jamming
far green in the mist of which
a voice in the timber tells
and
welcome, fáilte
mountain moment
hoofing the wish
timbre of the stream
in a ballad bowstroke
in the eye-to-eye reminds
some goblin stoking chimney as guessed
at the unself end of a tune
and next, and is it?
quick in the paw these tricks
the dark and the light
grip to the echo, then none
deeps in the down of a long lost vowel
whole cities burned
it’s witching
to saw a world or so
in this many parts, in two
there’s time for a silence in the
after while
and as I sketch it here
there’s not a word required
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