Sinister: Dol 'na still ann an aodann na bairlinn*

[Gordon]

In a dim but also fading room,
they met:
they were several and...
vivacious.

walls were there;
to listen in:
how many years,
are precious?

Brains and bodies;
hands and glowing eyes:
they met and
they were several.

Gradually the fading stopped for
the words exchanged were
Elemental.


The siphon of time meets living:
Living produces a giving of the light...

consequently

the room was dim no longer;
'though it was the middle of the night.

I appreciate that as you read this these words have been transcribed to
E-mail format but, as it is, paper and ink are located upon a rock by
the northwestern highlands coast of Scotland. I'm taking advantage of
the fact that the sun has broken through a squall, 'though the wind is
still up. Ahead of me, the shallows are turquoise: lapping black
ripplets over the golden seaweed like some undiscovered Hermes print on
silk. The horizon is striated by this low-tide.
Beyond is Skye. To the left is Eigg; closer than the rising and gloomy
mass of Rhum.
Last night I stayed in a lodge which was formerly a secret enclave of
the Special Operations Executive in WWII. Its current owner knows more
than I dared ask about people I've only read; or read of.
There were two peacocks in the garden, and fairylights in the dining
room. The scenario was entirely charming. I am smitten. Their collie dog
curled up to my leg by the fireplace and, the following morning its
young owner [the daughter of the daughter; about 7 or 8 years old]
quizzed me: 'what is it's name?'
'I call it dog'
'I own it, and I call it 'seal' because it likes to swim.'
'Maybe it wants a swim then; not a walk'
mother- "the sea is too cold"
I shrug and sign the bill; the tip being a half bottle of vintage
chablis left in their fridge.

It's heart-wrenchingly beautiful up here: even the sheep don't run away
at the sight of a person: they stop and stare.
A single cloud of some ten miles radius is depositing its arc of rain
upon the cliffs on the southern tip of Skye. The wind threatens to draw
the airborne water in my direction. Waves gallop white over the rocky
outshores and I'm shivering. Time to button up the jacket; turn the
collar up but, with an approaching wind the ensemble and its adjustments
are of scant use.

I'm so at home here: it's the least lonely place I know... conversations
with more than one person who knew what I was alluding to specifically.

When people run out, there is a presence of nature.
Sea reflects the mood of the air and those who behold it; the rocks: a
defiant architecture of sanctuary for birds like as sea-birds are apt to
be; the cold depths the baskings of a shark and the lamprey which is
somewhat horrific in that it bites into the dumb shark-flesh: the shark
is unaware of this intrusion and 'though our squeamishness may preclude
not facts, but conceptions: say; not stabbing but liposuction?
All in the descriptive frame, you see.

An oystercatcher zooms headfirst towards a runway of wet sand and brakes
with its wings before performing a staggering vertical landing from the
altitude of approximately one inch; orange undercarriage aglow. Does a
reccie of the foreshore.
The sun is out. The sea-side plants I remember from my grannie's garden
lilt in a breeze. Scotland makes sense from here: life makes sense from
here: if it is but a temporary respite; if it should become a bore... it
does not enter my head now and I would not request its prescence.
A gull rises on a warm uplift then lands to waddle into the waves. A low
arc of rainbow bridges the Sound of Sleat to the north: in the vapour is
hope; in the .....

Gordon


*the extract goes as follows, and apologies for the lack of accentuating
marks:

Sinibh, tairnib's lubaibh,
Na gallain liagh-leobhar ghiuthais
'S deanaibh uidhe troimh shutraibh an usaile.

Cliath ramb air gach taobh dhith
Masgadh fairge le saothair,
Dol 'na still ann an aodan na bairlinn

i.e.

Stretch, pull and bend
The slim-bladed pine saplings
And make a way through the oceans' currents.

Bank of oars on each side of her
Stirring ocean with toil,
Dashing in the face of the tempest

_ from Clanranald's Galley, written by Alaisdair, mac Mhaighstir
Alasdair, who is anonymously buried in the kirkyard of Arisaig... d.
1707 'the greatest gaelic poet'

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