Green Hench I

On a green hench a tumulus earth works
I lay my head on the steep slope
And look out, look across, look around
Directly opposite, the Ring of Brogdar stands silently
Each stone, a stone of immense weight, a slab
Flat sheared like paving – special stone
Red sandstone and the circle, unbroken
Yet has missing teeth, fallen where they stand, or gone
The magnetic power of the ring is strong
Rings of magnetism emit silently from the ring
Emanating until they reach
The stones of Stenness
 A smaller circle
Next to a lake
Deadpool lake – still – uncut
Reflective
And under the lake is the water to be
Silent, black pool
And above the lake is the cloud filled
Sky full of potential water
And the stones like a moon pull
The water down, down into the earth
Where they collect and lay until they
Are tidally pulled up – into the lake
Up into the vapourous cloud – the stones
Direct all – speaking silently to each other.
Brogdar to Stenness

Triangulating over to Maes Howe
the Green Hench on which I am sitting.
Maes Howe an underground circle of stones
And each stone
Reveals behind it a built alcove
Turf covers the circle
From the passageway underground is
A clear view of the two points of Brogdar and Stenness
Old geometry
Old thoughts
Old plans
Paths to the next life
Paths to the stars
Paths of story telling
Paths of lives long gone yet
Whispered still.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Collect Art Publication July 2023

Image
 First published in Collect Arts Summer 2023 edition Stone all the flowers   The year of the art school tutorials. The difficult woman you are to me, and the difficulty I present to you. The year of my recovery and your husband’s death.   Your husband fails and worsens through the days of our trimesters together. As he weakens and declines, I grow incrementally stronger. As if terrible fatalistic scales of balance, set and reset.   Do not cheat her. Give her a full measure of time and experiences with him. Pressed down, shaken together and overflowing. She, in the face of all this decay   Chooses to destroy flowers with stones. Until their purple hearts stained the cartridge with their elemental pigments.   She cuts the flowers only to waste them in the parching sun. It is the cycle of being and unbeing, the grass withers and the flower fades (Isiah 40:8). She decides to press her flowers till their lungs burst on fine co...
Read more
Image
Blackbird Egg Time slows down in the Victorian mirror. She is haunted by every face that checked themselves in the glass. She is on the cusp. A life about to begin in earnest, on the tipping point of adulthood. On the apex of future relationships, sexuality and desire. “Yes” she says, “that’s me in the mirror”, long brown hair, grey-blue eyes. She is just an ordinary brown bird. But common or garden blackbirds create sky eggs, objects of beauty and desire. Each one speckled slightly differently in the genus. If only she can create of herself such an object of yearning, her small brownness will be worth the transformation. On the Hall-stand crafted in a grand antique style, are a collection of blackbird’s eggs. Saved in small glass containers with their lids tight shut. Through the glass she sees pale blue specked eggs, broken with raggedy edges. The armoire ominously overshadows her slight fourteen year old self. Whom she sees reflected back in multiple mirrors, framed in the warm glea...
Read more

Chap Book #3 Gone With The Wind

Image
  Delighted to be published in:-  https://www.cistaarts.com/product-page/chapbook-series-3-gone-with-the-wind Learning craft from the wind   There was once a woman. Who learned craft from wind, art from the sea and design from the earth. She sewed intricate organic patterns in labyrinthine repeats. Her creativity was celebrated through the land. She was known as La Corachine, beautiful shell of the sea. Her daughter Powys was as natural as the elements, precious as comfort and radiant with gold-nature. One day an old woman coloured like an autumn day came to their door. “I want what is yours.” She said, and stuck a pin into the girl, who transformed into a brown-bird and flew off. “Old woman”, cried the mother, please cook a meat and potato pie for us. “Of course”, she sang, catching the brown-bird-daughter. And made her into a pie with potato skins. The leftover bones she threw into a corner of the garden. In three days, a beautiful tree g...
Read more