Atmospheric landscape
767 creative works found
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Northern England / /
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Golden Eagle Torrin Skye Scotland / /
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Black Cullins Skye Scotland / /
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Looking towards the Black Cullins Skye Scotland / /
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Above Morvich Highlands Scotland / /
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Sound of Sleat, Skye, Scotland. / /
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Towards the Black Cullins, Skye Scotand. / / /
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Glen Garry, Highlands, Scotland / /
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Corum, Glen Elg Highlands Scotland. / /
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Along the Raiders Road, Dumfries and Galloway. Scotland / / / The Complete Wastefulness of an Educational Summer / This lark ascending, now leaking notes, trilling into a hollow sky. This bent bracken of English woodland twisting in the history breeze with its dripped rain and paths to secret pools curled away from equally secret rivers. A musical boat bump counterpoint in rippled river waves as another one passes slowly. A cello soft water sound lapping the wreck curved nesting in a shallow reed filled hollowed embankment. With waterfowl and the sweetness of young breezes. Brass cows drink reflections and spit drip into green circles. Huge splatters of green pats, each stirred with its strange stick game. Woodwind wood pigeon flap and rise to the apex, dipping into the middle eight before the curve upwards to white hot skies again. Dull buzzing meadowland mathematical insects create light as they cross and collapse closely. Hawthorn in its glory steals colour from lesser forms blowing its pinkish blood confetti across waved field sea. The music of an easy day. Fish rises in collapsed keep nets and the small finch flocks cast white and black onto the stile just where you put your hand for good luck. Perch is foul hooked and lots of Gudgeon escape through the holes in poor imprisonment. You call it worm drowning. The heated fly paths beneath the hedge with the black thorns in your knee and old glass buried. Exploring as the sun setting sitting watching float bores and drinks from porridge water filled with pop flavoured bread crumbs shared. Feet in water and minnows playing, clay puffing between toes. Moorhen arse flicking white in Motherly temper. Exploring the local farm midden for blood worms and tell everyone who will listen how they are not allowed in this still English water. Fascinating underwater flood escapes shafted with bent light and flicking three spine stickleback. Scaled huge underwater forests seen clear and greening with cool counterpoint musical shadows fading into legend. An English light of summer drifting towards a school holiday sunset. Knowing there is another tomorrow and so onto for six forever weeks of full wonderful fashions. Peace, past and present. Smooth sounds and trilling bird Summers. Fishing and floating worry less away from what would wind around causing default. So to, yet finally shocked into submission, and sudden spotting of a starved lurcher dog hanging murdered from a very weeping willow with barbed wire noose. Causing tears and reflected, still, final, dark horror. So place this moment in the rest to be filed and seek to correct it on your own.
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Glen Coe, Highlands, Scotland / /
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Skye, Hebrides, Scotland / / /
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Skye, Hebrides, Scotland / / / Alexion’s Long Memories and the Kings of Dalraida / I have words wandering on the beach. A running trill across the pebbles and bubbled stream of wrecked lost sea matting. The sine curve of the bay left before and behind. Of rock and infinite stuttered cove length should you wish to measure such things. The coastline is the plane of the picture. The dimensional shift to the sea’s subtle green on white plucking on the land. Of the bits of in and out, the smooth glass, soft dune sand and black fly blown corpse popping. Walking this way again after years. Unable to return before. Resonance written down to collapse all the words into singular meanings with plural Gulls screeching. Wondering what to write now. How to tell this bit of the legend. No, I forget myself, of the fiction, just a story. Describe this piece of coastal music, been done and better. Slice this mood of seventh wave madness, once again. Wring more wisdom from it. Counterpoint the above and below colours of the horizon becoming the same or certainly similar. Lateral thinking provides the solution before you get to the problem. All the arts together. Plural energy combined through the art and seeing conduit. No one but your silhouette for all the endless shore now. Not so once. The very difference between being alone and lonely. Sand relaxed but searching, not sitting soaking. Hermit crab louts wearing the drink cans and evening dresses of pink seaweed. Clockwork life chasing the tideline, over-wound beyond its limit to save lives. Birds like pebbles and kelp in forests of amphibian canopies. There was a time when Alexion would climb across my face as if traversing this beach. Taking as much interest. The combers of her ram raid wishes taxing the evidence I had for being romantically involved. The shifting tides of her emotive pleas. Pressing down until I could not breath. You will not leave me here will you? Using will twice was significant. I am lost enough already. Lost in her own versions of history and mythical lying.. The Kings of Dalraida marched along here to place a foot in a hole as proof of their kingship. A hole in the rock of a pinnacle above a marsh. This was holy I presume. If the shoe fits. Alexion knew this before I did. Pictish Kings and cloudy Saints with Irish names in homespun and sanctified ritual stink, she told me, whilst screaming at the attacking Skua. Tonsures shaved from the front of the head up behind the ears and whitethorn crosses lashed together in caves that dripped symbolic hermit madness. Again I did not know of the Celtic Tonsure. Alexion danced her insults to history on this beach trailing toes and mouthing nonsense to keep her inarticulate interest. On the mainland away from the mythical islands; she could not cross the water. The history of the place. She said she was here, when and there because and roundabout in her lunatic convent memories that made me mad. Because they were lies. Lies about the God I thought of then and old gods and the shelia-na-gig she made to take with us.. The Shearwater lost soul screaming knew as her old friends, even as they haunted and battered us with her name just beyond the night fire and the shushing of the waves. She was later haunting me in turn from a similar secret hole in the ground. And I of course allowed this but that was, as they say, later, much later in the roundabout story, that was and is just a fiction, you understand. © 2009 Ken Simm.
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Black Cullins: Skye, Hebrides, Scotland. / /
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Glen Coe, Scotland. / /
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Skye, Hebrides, Scotland. / /
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Overlooking Jura, Scotland / /
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Cullins, Skye, Hebrides, Scotland. / / Words on the First Death. A Prayer for Alexion. It ended in the cold apparently. With drum and pipe and the English priest complaining. A message would be sent with the Eagle. They all knew but no one mentioned. The age of enlightenment was here after all below the Glen. The clearances changed the immediate world from the rattle coughing of the old , to the sheep bleating of the young and the stone slow righteous anger of the mountain. All combined richly in one death. / How did I consider the role I apparently played? Was I known in her life? Am I indeed in this story of immortality’s promises? Was there a need for me then as there is a special need for her in my concious attempts to play the minor notes first? / Conventions and commitments show their dangerous and rude parts whatever the history . The only true courage is to face up to our failings with something like glee and rejoice we are no worse, or indeed no better. This was the only pure truth of those puberty dreams that I invented in my illness. There is no bravery if it is the only thing you can do. Afterwards, never come again until she said just now and now, Come to Me. / Alexion died in the cold and lonely just as she the first one I loved and loved me with those same bright eyes. With her went the choice of relating the ghost story of this failing throughout my ages. / The sleet cut the mountain slabs and the large wings beat slowly against a wind that was change intangible. Lifting into a changing complex sky. Predator died ignominiously with carrion poison. Eggs shattered and were collected for enlightenment under the revolution industry glass. The rest of us became impotent with it. Even as we earned no better than was deserved. The English priest’s insistant complaining was heard in the vaulted industrial halls of an Albion no one recognised, understood or wished for. In the shooting breaks of the not so common, the peat whiskey was drunk and renounced regularly. / In this future memory the red salmon river flowed forever over its silk falling. The Blackcock stood occasionally King of his own castle and the Eagle found there were not enough to continue. The wildcat and falcon hid until I discovered them in books given away as academic prizes. Finally going in search of these pathways that led to where she once nearly lived and finally lost, flew away. © 2009 Ken Simm.
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The Nevis Range, Highlands, Scotland. / / /
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Cullins, Skye, Hebrides, Scotland. / /
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Skye, Hebrides, Scotland / /
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The Heart.
by KenartHighlands, Scotland / /
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Western Isles, Scotland. / /
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Pentax Optio S30 location Agnes Waters – Queensland – Australia /
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