Fourth Movement: The Glen 1759. Theme for Alexion.


Joined January 2008

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Torridon, Highlands, Scotland

A Soft Caress of Welcome and the Scent of Old High Places.

This spacious light was common in those days. A soft silk gossamer net that would have to fade to become mist. That would whisper across the glens in common history and Alexion’s gloaming myth memories. This and that would hide and seek, would become damp and shiver spider pearls from the Popish brown and purple of the mountain. Always catching the edge of a rough dress made from banned and ragged tartan.

That would be secret sought for later remembered images and collapse in upon itself to find regional rural meaning. That would eventually create pictures that will hang in the hunting lodges of the rich and royal, in need of cleaning.

It was morning fresh mood and midge covered evening in the latter end of Summer in the west.

Alexion’s stories of the glen in her century. The Black house highland cow dung, black chicken pecked, villaged small secret world of the hidden and the regional self aware. The high views that were seen differently and with much less romance than now in this sad century. A wish to climb the highest in her remembered sight with the breathless wonder and detailed knowledge of the way down, but still not wanting to return to slavery. The stories mythical of a childhood in this fastness of black rock and crashing falling water. The black witch prediction watchfulness of a mother that did not care and besotted father who apparently did; but only in negative for his animals and the mountain at his back. The black seasoned preacher, with his genital showing perversion and stealing of nightgown righteousness. The light shafted mist that began and ended each short day of work.

These were her words. These were the notes musical that tried to convince me of the strangely impossible. That fascinated my youth with such detail as to seem real and seen, experienced and happening then as even now. That to me were legends. That to her were as real as breathing.

These she told across my neck lying sweat stuck together as we waited for our breath to come back from the past. That she shouted in her ghost voice to the moon and the unfaithfulness of man.

Waiting for an explanation with hypnogogic understanding from me and extra detailed history from her. A soft caress of welcome and the scent of heather and old high places. The even softer accent of whispered clasping and spooned bodies that did not want to let go, no matter what forces were at play.

Suppose you juxtapose this memory history with small, sweet sounds on the edge of hearing.

Of cold softness, of the bed sinking from beneath and behind. Feeling the weight gradually, slowly filling. There are no sudden movements, only the gradual awareness of something else. Gradual and strange.

A weight, a pushing back of the sheets. Of small arms across my chest. Very warm and pointedly aware of nakedness. The brushing of nipples across back and buttocks.

There is always in this a smell, an evocative sense of something, somewhere else. Nothing I can usually or immediately resolve, but it comes anyway.

I can remember every time a witches warmness moving slowly down my back, solar centring. Gathering around her madness and pulling me in. A prick scintillating pricking that does not feel like love, rising to a pointed word. The centre of a celtic spiral. This is far more than pleasure…

She will then and only tell her stories, after the brief vicious coupling that rang in this present past with inexperience and needy solutions. That salty, like the sea, spurted with premature love and sang with unfulfilled hopes before we finished with each others thoughts and myths.
© 2009 Ken Simm.

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