Ben Nevis, Scotland
The Romance Music from The Witchfinder General. A Confounded Letter.
As nightime therapy then, I listed all the happenings I could not explain. Could not account for in the dreadful, dreary, daily, dumb. Fearful scars across a manic mystery country of my own making.
First across the Camel river then to Lyonesse; to hear the bells under the waves and finding in ivy, hidden Mesopotamian mystery mazes on a rocky valley, carved, cliff wall. A witch body in an old witched blacked stone museum. A big pig, ghost pig, frightening a boy, in Thomas Hardy’s cold boarded, greenwood church. An Adder and a sign Saint under a stone in a river, ending through a fiord. The Once and Future King swimming forever under Tintagel’s sea waterfalls. The light of my stone megalith mystery landscape. The one they call paralis in paradise. Before the moor of excellent dreams.
North Grandfather coming into sleep and asking to be aright, all light with his fob and blue Saint golden watch hanging bright.
Othneil, Lion of God, my Norman ancestor uncle, haunting me uncertainly with the sad smell of his pipe tobacco in rooms long emptied of memories. The first time I am in Ireland when he dies, in old England and I did not know.
A hand touches mine in the Irish peat dark from nowhere. It plays and strokes calmly and then unaccountably leaves. Leaving flowers and the smell of pipe tobacco.
A sister asleep with eyes closed at the same time across the widest sea, as Ireland, yet reading aloud and turning pages in an illustrated book..
The Synchronizing of timeless effect and million to one chances happening every tattled tale time I looked around, in and under, in remorseless fogged fear.
Finding this music only when I stopped listening and looking in the hiding place of plain sight.
A caged cap cavalryman in a Priest hole chimney behind the horsehair and plaster of a friend and ancient farm. The walk across a wooden, yet carpeted floor with spurs a jingle. With his long straight pistol and long straight fluted sword all bright, all blood, all right.
The monster sound crashing in the eldrich dark wood of illicit listless love with the girl that ran and ran and ran along the old railway into another woman. The place and line of decapitated Captains of failed industry suicide.
All these, still many more, were list listed in the black books of before bright pagan burning, as always. As Sunshine therapy then. Did it work? Oh yes and strangely enough, no.
© 2009 Ken Simm.