Western Isles, Scotland.
Move out of the green, smelling mown, of shoreline hills and onto the water at the edge of every moments history.
The acoustic motes of smooth bright that lip kiss the wavelets of this calmed surface, hiding much. This is the music, this time.
Soay and then Rhum and Eigg in and out, sew the waves and speed through the edges of the dolphin wake following and catching me. Win free with spinnaker speed, into the Minch. The blue summer isles of Somerled’s fiefdom reflected.
Blue cliffs of enormous cool tone passing above and behind. A cut dark mirror of turquoise over deep as the shadow falls coldly. The hump of a black rubber whale shooting sea rainbow mist from a sea shaved black shined round head.
A shot sound of bright canvas contrast. Articulation creaks of new rope on shiny surfaces. The cool that feels good blowing south smooth.
Fresh wind that clears tubes and feelings. That pleasantly chills, the whole inside of this body, including, no one in particular.
A black rack of brine wrecked, rubber popped, bladder wrack alive with black hoppers. Greeting the landing on salmon pink rocks pushed through sand like the inner workings of some fresh dead inadequately buried, leviathan. No one else’s footprints. No Friday to mar the lonely machair soul.
A beach hoodie grey black crow, working up to and including the corpse of a bay porpoise left here on purpose perhaps? Cannot feel even momentary grief but saved until later, perhaps collapsing.
Now new white yellow, black lined, Gannets fired from an invisible sea gun. Cutting straight down onto the shoals, missing surprisingly every time. Returning to regurgitate in sea vomit mess down comedy pumping gullets in the largest collective smell you have ever seen.
The old ones took their straight lines from this same horizon to build on, in and alter, this sharp clean landscape. Dragon boats came dancing and Duns rose lifting from the washed away cliffs. We then have more than the time to wait and I will, for as long as it takes.