Solitude No More

You think I want to be here alone
But I have to say that isn't true
The reason that I'm here at all
Is to be here alone with you

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Queen of the Clearence

She owned a million acres
I did not own a single one
She owned a million acres
Yet it is her lands beauty
That my eyes now ache upon

She was a lady of the lowlands
With edicts oft emerging from
She was a lady of the lowlands
Though it is her natures beauty
That has me now rising strong

The mourn of loch and lay line
Helps us to carry on
The scorn of loss and lost time
Gives the faith to live it long
Shares the faith to live it long

Live it long by stones and steeples
Live it long by folk and lore
Live it long in every moment
Live it long
Through the length
Of all your rousing songs

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Calanais

You sit at your desk
We stand beside the stone
The gale tears away all doubt
No need for sages

We are among true believers
Barefoot warriors
Freed from their desks
Free to bless the stone

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Seedlings in Flight

The water and the wind
The water and the wind
The water and the wind
The water the wind
& the grasses blown on home to you

The grasses blown
Blown on
To thoughts of home
On the water and the wind
The thoughts blown on home to you

Here among your highland grounds
Here among your standing stones
Here among your land of endless lochs & pantries
Here among the water and the wind
Here among the thoughts that I blow on home to you

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Rain & Sun & Rain & Sun & Rain...

Blue sky to the heavens
Grey mist to the sea
Black, white crested waves

Rothko through and through
With some imaginary spirit
Sat unseen, set behind it all

Today we have the rain
Yet hardly a hint of breeze
And a silver grey
Seemingly cloudless sky

But it is true
We do have the rain
Free falling to splash on tin & tile
Calling us to stay indoors

Snuggle up, with a book
Listen to our favourite music
Watch the seals play
Make best of having a telescope
Feel the cool air on bare bodies
In preparation for a warm shower

While he seeks out light
The light that we only see
On the painters canvas
Or in the photographers print

I seek out the sound
That we all might hear
Of raindrops on corrugated roofs
And aeroplanes taking to the sky

In this way sight and sound are given back to us
The trickle of stream
The break in cloud
Our earthly atmospherics reflected

Grain of sand
Lap of wave
Pop of bladderwrack
Under the soles of feet

Watch the brackish water
Taint the sea with it's purples and browns
Pause, on a hill, under the cover of a fir tree
A half-covered shelter from the diagonal rain

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The energy of lost love

Back into the warmth
Or did the warmth come from the book
Early on, an easy understanding
Of the many levels of consciousness
Given to me through Jung's interpretation
Of his early 30's dream

My arm is warm
The thin pullover clings ever so lightly
These are the paths my mind now wanders along
The slightest of touches, the merest of movements
Invoking memories of a gentle love
A love even more gently imagined

A memory so easily painted
With soft lights and warm colours
A time past that lives fleetingly as a time present
An energy that reminds me
That the warmth did not come from the book
The warmth came from within me

A within that has loved and lost and loved again
A warmth that reminds me that the loss of love
Is not love lost, but a love that floats
A love that waits to be rediscovered
Whenever the warmth calls by

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Scarlet Draughts

On this forearm
Merino wool is teased
Up and over the golden hair
Strands of hair that feel the breeze
Feel to be here, as easy as feel to be
Anywhere else I would wish to be

Ribbed sleeve ends
Bring a structure to proceedings
Provide a firmer bond to the softer pullover
Here now pull yourself together
What sort of friend
Would a lover make anyway



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Views & Desires

I am impatient
I have no time for this poetry dressed up as art
Yet I know for sure it is just a time thing
That with a clearer head I would absorb it fully
I would even turn to talk of love
Though never have I yet been able to talk of love
As finely as that fair old Mr Robin Robertson

I am impatient
I have no time for sitting and waiting
Yet I know for sure that once on board
The ferry time will pass even more slowly
That only then will I be able to look back
On that idyllic cottage by the stream
Somewhere on the way to Ullapool


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Findhorn Forest

In the shade of the pine
With pebbles & sand at my feet
I sit on the log barrier to have my photograph taken

Kate somehow manages, just after noon
To bring the flashbulb into action
It was clever, she says later
To the accompaniment of beating drums

The pine brush carries it's own random patterns
Rings of the sawn log gives away its age
A span of life before becoming further human solace

Times, and places run their course
Where once there was unfettered imagination
Coupled with a freedom of will there is now ageing

Rituals with repetition which in turn lead to decay
We are all  in need of the search for a new beginning
A new motivation; but it is no longer sufficient

To paint the words
Of grace and patience, onto ceramic mugs

to read the full collection online or download for free from issuu click here

Findhorn

The dust of previous occupancy
Smothers any possibility
Of individual reckoning

Like a swathe of blankets
Thick in felt and embroidery
The weight of others is overbearing

Yet this place
Names itself
The centre for community

I wonder
Why then do I feel so estranged -
I determine to retreat to the pebble beach

Take solace with the solitary fisherman
Cast my cares to the clouds
Throw my woes on the rolling sea

The talk turns
To Finnish lodges
In the heart of the forest

A place to sauna
& swim
Au naturel

This sounds
More like
An engagement with life to me


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Truly lost

He was in a city outskirts shop doorway
Head in his hands he sat befuddled
The drink had hold of him
He clutched his navy blue carrier bag

No amount of explanation
Would he take in on this night
This night
That was only yet in it's late afternoon stage

I won't ever see him again
Neither wonder at his whereabouts
Except for through these few words:
Adios amigo



to read the full collection online or download for free from issuu click here

Van Mildert’s Portrait

At first I thought of it as a week of my life

Without a single memory 

I sat in the cathedral and pondered

All those years ago did I not go on to the rooftop

Was it not possible back then to look down on the prison

Are these simply a nowadays imagination

I am more certain

Of a formidable figure

Whose portrait hung high

In the university halls

He was overlooking

Indeed overpowering the diners

As they sat in the refectory

And stumbled through lunch

We remained strangers one and all

They left my life, without a single memory


to read the the full collection or download for free from issuu click here

Highlands and Islands: Christopher & Kate on Tour

Summer vacation gives this part-time poet the time, the space and the inspirations to enjoy his creative outlet. These poems are presented in chronological order, in their entirety, as a record. These are the days and nights that passed as Kate & I travelled first north, then west and finally south, back to our home in Lincolnshire.

These movements, changes in direction, are on the macro scale, we also spent much time traversing microcosmically.

There could be more photographs, thousands were taken. The poems are considered a differentiated form of aide-mémoire.

No More Pebbledash - Join the Campaign Today

For two many years I have been a man without a cause. I have meandered, with an almost entire lack of conviction, through every aspect of my life. 

But, and I know you sensed a but coming, I think I have now found my calling. 

I want to rid the world of pebbledash. Pebbledash is the scourge and a blight to the outside of houses in just the same way as Anaglypta wallpaper was to the inside of houses. They both serve to cover up shoddy workmanship, to bring a continuity of surface onto uneven foundations. 

Instead of making the bare surface bold and beautiful it is as if they would encourage pretty girls to wear rickety-rackety undergarments, assuring these poor innocents that a spray of top coat will turn them into princesses, it won't; their veneer will be seen through, their pretentiousness to any honour will be discounted.

I have seen no beauty in pebbledash, I believe its very make up, and form of application, prohibit such beauty ever emerging. 

I think then that I have found my cause. I want to rid the world of pebbledash!

First I want to clear this ugliness from the countryside, where this so obviously man-made debacle sits absolutely uneasily alongside the beauty of nature.

I would also like to begin on the Hebridean Isles, where this, my revulsion to pebbledash, climaxed. And perhaps as a symbolic gesture I would begin with the Museum of South Uist outside of where I now sit.

Kate is keen to join the protest but isn't too happy with my stance of not entering pebbledashed buildings. I will have to put her on the associate membership list I think, until she becomes more committed.

We call in on the Dutch artist Jac Volbeda, he welcomes Kate and me into his fine and artistic white, wet-dashed, bed abd breakfast property, he gives us many links to artists and writers from the Netherlands, I tell him of my campaign against pebbledash, he has some sympathy, together we listen to Counting Crows.

Polochar Inn Beach

There is a song at the waters edge
There are pebbles on vacant sands
There are swirls where the streams of water head towards the sea
There are people, why wouldn't there be

The beauty of this beach idyll is then all but beaten out of me by Kate's insistence that we carry on walking in the rain, towards a small dwelling, with four windows and a door

I go along with the daftness for a while but finally insist on returning to the hotel
Kate walks to my left side, taking shelter from the persistent rain; my right side becomes soddened

At the cross roads we turn right, now we walk directly into the wind, and the slanting rain
Kate takes shelter, she walks, just short of a rainfalls depth, behind me; my front becomes entirely soddened

A calm emerges, clear light ahead
There are songs in my head
There are stones for my feet to kick
There are puddles, ideal for children to skip and splash in
There are people, why wouldn't there be

Darutti Harris Tweed

Neither the lady from New York nor her colleague from the South of England were in the Harris Tweed shop today. Indeed their part of the homely store was closed for restoration work. Consequently the three jackets they had helped me choose yesterday afternoon remained on the shelves, for I had vowed only to make a purchase after hearing how these two characters had got themselves to the remote village of Grosebay on the Isle of Harris. Without their factual explanation I might have to drive forward fanciful interpretations of my own; Kate says they weren't sisters, which was my first presumption. We heard that Prince Charles and Camilla had visited the shop, perhaps the two assistants had a royal connection (Kate is busily looking up the equivalent of an hotel maitre d' for a clothes shop to improve the use of the word assistant) The shop is in truth a private house, as far away from the High Street as any shop anywhere in the world. The clothes are all of Harris Tweed, the jackets I care for are by Darutti. The ladies tell me they are of Italian design, by German manufacture, using the most exclusive fabric in the world (they were not in the business of underselling their wares). They told me in one I looked slimmer, in another I was the perfect country gent ready for a day at the races, and in the third the colours in the tweed picked out perfectly the blonde colouring in my hair (at school it was called ginger), as I say they were not in the underselling business.

Intrinsically Safe

…you sit at your desk ~ I stand beside the stones ~ the gale tears away all doubts ~ no need for sages ~ we are among true believers ~ barefoot warriors ~ freed from our desks ~ free to bless the stones

Jungian

Back into the warmth. Or did the warmth come from the book. Early on, an easy understanding of the many levels of consciousness; given to me through Jung's interpretation of his early 30's dream. My arm is warm, the thin pullover clings ever so lightly; these are the paths my mind now wanders along, the slightest of touches, the merest of movements invoking memories of a gentle love, a love even more gently imagined, a memory so easily painted with soft lights and warm colours, a time past that lives fleetingly as a time present, an energy that reminds me that the warmth did not come from the book, the warmth came from within me, a warmth within that has loved and lost and loved again. Such a warmth that reminds me, that the loss of love is not a love lost but a love that waits to be rediscovered, whenever the warmth calls by.

Workshop World

In the shade of the pine, with pebbles and sand at my feet, I sit on the log barrier to have my photograph taken. Kate somehow manages, even though it is just after noon, to bring the flash into action; it was clever she says later, to the accompaniment of beating drums. The pine brush carries it's own random patterns, the rings of the sawn log gives away it's age, it's full time of life over, before helping to form a new human support venture. Times, and places run their course; where once there was unfettered imagination, and freedom of will, there is now ageing and signs of repetition, which in turn leads to decay. We are all  in need of the search of a new beginning, a new motivation; it is no longer sufficient to talk of community, or to dance around the word retreat, or to paint the words of grace and patience onto fine ceramic mugs.

Age of Community

The dust of previous occupancy smothers any possibility of individual reckoning. Like a swathe of blankets thick in felt and embroidery the weight of others is overbearing.

Yet this place names itself the community, so I wonder why do I feel so estranged? Rather than becoming engulfed in the question I judge it better to retreat to the pebble beach, take solace with the solitary fishermen, cast my cares to the clouds, abandon my thoughts to the rolling sea. The talk turns to Finnish lodges, space in the heart of the forest, a place to sauna and swim au natural - this sounds more like an enlightened engagement with life to me.