‘Smile’,
she said
‘You’re on camera’
she plead
As you turned to face
the lens glare
the lingering stare
and devil may care
attitude
‘No photos -
I don’t do those’
You chose
to say
‘Too late’
she grinned
and clicked
and a little piece
of your spirit
slipped
into her
slick photographic
carriage
and slightly disparaged
by your angried
expression
she left
unable to discern
how she’d stolen
a little piece
of you.
Fingers, hesitantly feel
instinctively along the wall
in near dark, half light
sensing what feels right
Tracing an uncertain line
surface scratched to define
a nearness, a half guess
appraising what comes next
Words now gently search
tentatively to approach
near likeness, a half glimpse
holding to possible promise
Reaching out, gathering in
seeking some connection
close understanding;
fully accepting:
who we are
and what we’ve been.
At the moment I’m trying to walk everywhere I go (within feasible distance). It saves me money and it’s part of a health regime to get my hinny figure back after a month of junk food whilst I was teacher training a couple of months ago.
The one thing you will find when you walk anywhere for longer than five minutes is the sheer variety of encounters that are simply lost when travelling by car. In a car it’s a sealed zone, a small pocket of vacuum packed self, buffered from the real world as you drive past fleeting images that become remote and objective – like images on a TV screen.
Travelling by foot is an entirely different affair.
For a start there’s the weather, which, if you’re in Scotland, is very much a changeable experience. Yesterday the skies were a solid block of steel grey with driving rain, which at some points resembled what my grandmother would have called ’stair rods coming down sideways’. Today is warm, golden autumn sunshine – with billowing winds that whip and buffet you – so much so that it’s a battle at times to walk in a straight line. Leaves, twigs, indeed the odd branch seem encouraged to loosen from trees, and flags not so much wave in the breeze as rattle like staccato gun fire.
Then the encounters.
Trekking down via the Grassmarket and reaching the end of what is affectionately called by the locals ‘the pubic triangle’ (where bars are largely populated by pole dancers and windows are firmly blacked out), two gentlemen reeled precariously in the centre of the pavement, and were in a dainty, dancily kind of way, holding each other up. It was like watching an unintended Argentinian Tango, lurching unexpectedly down then up, tenacious fingers clasped on each others shoulders as they wavered in the feisty breeze. Negotiating the tango twosome looked like an intriguing challenge against the busy road. Pulling my brolly in against the wind and rain, I wryly smiled as I approached. Both were dressed in traditional kilts, and cutaway jackets and I don’t doubt they were ex-regiment. Right now they were ex-scotch bottle.
“Oooph” grins one, looking up from the latest lurch, “heezit raining under therrre?” pointing at my brolly embattled against sideways rain. I laughed and said it was as I passed them by. Because really, it was.
I wheel around the corner, cross the road, and a hulking mass is shambling its way down towards me. Down and out, tattered rags criss-crossed this bear of a man with an unkempt shaggy grey-yellow-white mane of hair: not so much clothes as makeshift wrap around pieces of cloth all bound around him fluttering like dismal miniature bunting. His figure was crooked, as if someone had snapped him two and left him to drag himself along the street, a large amorphous industrial bin bag in tow. I stepped aside to make room on the small pavement – eyes connected for an unspoken moment, distant and disconnected, before humping on down the road. Another classic case of social service failure and broken will.
Five more minutes down the road and a large cargo van stands with the back screen drawn high. Coming towards me at speed is a young man in blue overalls, weighted under the full mass of a single bed mattress. Make or break. If this guy stops, the mattress is gonna keep going. Stepping aside for a second time I watched in vague admiration as this man-mattress-made-one wheeled around the corner in a smooth manoeuvre. I eyed the back of the van and noticed four more similar mattresses. By the end of the day that guy was going to have a seriously sore neck.
Home leg: long trek past a large building site, five storeys high. More flats built in a nouveau neo-seventies brown brick and ‘designer’ chrome and glass finish. The air is heady with the smell of new tarmac and damp dust. Bargain basement designer blocks that will look like rain stained ghetto land in ten years time.
“Hoooooy!” …drifts across the rising howl of wind and plastic bag rattle and flutter.
“Heeeyyyooooooyyyy!!!”
Raising my head up from its wind resistant 45 degree angle, I realise there’s no-one around this stretch except me. I look over my shoulder. No-one. I look up and sure enough, four storeys up, there’s the cocky builder in cheery yellow safety helmet and smart arse grin, winking and waving at me. I give him a you’re too young and I’m old enough to be your mum look. Still doesn’t stop him grinning, having bagged yet another gal’s attention.
I wonder what his tally will be by the end of the day.
I used to see you
through (ironically) rose tinted hue:
a filtered view through alcohol
infused a distinctive shade of blue
Curaçao cruel
yet surreal feel
laconic sympathy
an empathic symphony
of ecchymotic melancholy
a blue-white wash away…
&
a new palette has come into play
these cyaneous eyes
azure sure appraise
with cobalt zeal
the real teal?
I’ll have to watchet
indigo to commit
a mazarine new scene
ultramarinely
serenely at peace
calmly cesious
cool blue, now, the new rose
Watery white sunlight
Trickles down
contrite, in it’s effort
to warm cold skin
chilled by autumnal winds
that augur harsher
weather
silver solace,
in this empty place
where children’s voices
echo stark
in this playground park
the last mowing of summer grass
scent of headier days
slowly dries
as the harvest breeze
cleaves the blades
the trees shades
lengthen like reaching fingers
touching the last embers
of summer warmth
that bathes in fits and starts
this pale, pallid disk, masked
as clouds, flit hurriedly past
fleet
apologetic
and intransigent
as the heat
a simple reminder of
this seasonal retreat
leaves hang by
golden threads
glimmering, dangling
russet red
orange green
almost falling
almost there
change is in the air
a sense of gentle chaos
as the mood shifts
the day drifts
towards twilight
and the long good night
of winter
beckons.
rank and file, everything in order
laid out clearly, specifically defined
dark and light squares – all’s fair
in love and war: the players lined
all intent on final denouement
to attain the endgame to king
the queen bides time, intent:
the possibilities facing…
strategic combines with instinctual
pawns opening steps move toward
can’t step back in battle
boldly honest, moving forward
en passant, sideways movement throws
thoughts revised, are evasive now
knight takes on the blows
queen steps out: where does she go?
king remains silent in his court
now the pieces take their place
decisions now are fraught
should queen review and retrace?
game in thought, how we interact
play, deliberate, considerate
overt becomes covert
is the end checkmate, or stalemate?
I love the sunshine. In fact, sometimes I wonder why the hell I moved up to Scotland because ‘regular’ sunshine in Scotland is a myth right up there with Brigadoon and Nessie. Instead we get it in fits and starts – and when it finally does make an appearance for more than two days running, Scots get sun silly happy and start stripping off and lying down on any patch of grass available to worship the great Sol.
I have a running in-joke: there are two shades of Anglo-Pictish Scot – pilly wally blue-white, and lobster pink. Sometimes, if you’re really unlucky and happen to be passing Princes Street Gardens on a hot July day, you’ll get to see the two tone effect where they failed to put on a little sunblock.
For the last few days we’ve been experiencing some rarified prelonged spells of sunshine, after what seems like an eternity of monsoon-like rain that continued to pour down for most of August and into September.
I’ve taken the opportunity to jump outside to the local public park green and sit out on the grass and read quietly in the hot sunshine. I’m usually very quiet, unassuming, and try to plant myself where I’m not in danger of getting knocked out by flying footballs, cricket balls, frisbees or unsteady toddlers peddling along at a drunken-monk style three-mile an hour dash.
I’m even considerate of the ten strong gatherings of teenagers getting slowly drunk on cheap white cider and attempting to make a barbecue with a flat-pack throwaway charcoal box and a packet of Walls’ flamingo pink sausages. I’ll sit on the furthest most edge of the grass just for some semblance of quiet.
The one thing I unfortunately can not avoid, are the dogs. I don’t mind dogs – when they’re held on a long lead and are walked, under control as they’re supposed to be in a local park.
But nooooo… these owner are so bloody lazy they just let go the leash and off goes said canine, hurtling around the place like it’s whacked out on finest champagne speed, bouncing off trees, other dogs and usually me.
It’s like a sixth sense… suddenly the hairs on the back of your neck raise as you distractedly reread that second paragraph whilst the tell tale rustle of grass encroaches. Dogs never come at you head on – they blind side you – snout firmly in to your back, your bag, and if they can get far enough in – your butt.
The owners are usually oblivious or just think – hey, it’s ‘cute’.
It isn’t cute – I want to sit and read unassailed, without some ‘cute’ dog suddenly trying to ransack my zen space, chew my sandals, and snarl up my handbag.
Okay – if you want ‘cute’ I got mugged by puppies on two consecutive days, and I’ll concede they were fluffy, dorky and all snaffle nosed and harmless enough. Except the one yesterday got so damned boisterous it scratched me on the chin with outstretched claws, and the one today after repeated friendly visits left doggy snot all over my paperback copy of Catcher in the Rye.
The trouble is, that Britain is kinda limited on ‘wide open spaces’ – so where there’s a space, and sunshine, we’re almost elbowing each other for our little patch, and inevitably you’ll get run-ins and people stepping on each other.
That’s probably why we’re constantly saying sorry. Even if we don’t mean it. Just to avoid an argument spilling over into something vaguely more menacing after being hit on the back of the head by a frisbee for the third time in an afternoon.
Space, is something Brits lust after – our own private space. Probably because this island is so small and we’re forever tripping over each other’s space, or hoping to expand our limited personal space.
Perhaps I should just up sticks, get a pair of hiking boots and trek out into The Highlands. I’d get a lot of space up there. Trouble is, I’d probably end up suffering from hypothermia instead. 
Sometimes I wonder
As summer fades cold to grey:
Will inner light stay?
Like a comfortable pullover
words slide over me
soft and familiar
like a rediscovered
blanket carried
to bed every night
Cosseting tones imaginably
smile conspiratorially
from the page
I apologetically feel
guilty for being unable to gauge
why I’m happy but needing to steal
myself away whilst simultaneous rage
makes me seem like Janus
straining towards
and backwards
whilst dizziness fogs
with mixed emotion.
I always had the notion
you’d gone entirely
set yourself free
on a sea of anonymity
perhaps finally
letting go to your destiny…
so imagine the surprise
when these lyrics arise
echoes of playful tease and taunt
have come to haunt
like a favourite forgotten tune
oh, all too soon
come the memories
wishes, promises
almost was…
and never could be
you see -
we knew that,
didn’t we?
Don’t worry
I know for you and me
it’s enough
to part, amicably.
autumn winds blow change:
leaves fall and lay bare the trees
stark like souls washed clean
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