( loosely based on the Irish anti-war song 'Johnny I hardly remember ye' )
the Rum Gardeners there were twelve in all hurrah! hurrah!
every one a Hero and answered the call hurrah! celagh!
they were going out to war to fight the Hun
soon be back as Heroes when the work is done
so get the Cheer Leaders ready
the Rum Gardeners are coming home
poison gas threatened death from afar hurrah! hurrah!
soon be back as Heroes and first at the bar hurrah! celagh!
they climbed over the top of the fields of fire
and complex networks of barbed wire
so get the fireworks ready
the Rum Gardeners are coming home
deadlocked enemies on the western line hurrah! hurrah!
their bodies were earth their hands were slime hurrah! celagh!
they didn't have time to take a breath
out of duty to the King they laughed at death
so get the flagpoles ready
the Rum Gardeners are coming home
specialist bombers of an infantry platoon hurrah! hurrah!
our Heroes longed to be home so soon hurrah! celagh!
overhead shellfire scared them out their wits
dropped in their trench and blew them all to bits
so get the coffins ready . . .
the Rum Gardeners are coming home.
The Rum Gardeners were twelve young men who were masters of their craft. They transformed the gardens of Kinloch Castle on the Isle of Rum(Scotland) into a veritable paradise. There were Palm trees, a Japanese walled garden, an array of tropical plants, crops of peaches, nectarines, figs and grapes and acres of glass houses with free flying Humming-Birds. Out of the 12+ young men that went to war, only two returned.
Scene ( Oldshoremore )
cottage dotted slopes
on treeless moors
scattered crofts
'apostrophise'
the shining lochans
daunting and foreboding
a ring of mountains
meandering,
though static
a drystone dike
cascades
into an an oasis of serenity
a snaking road
cavorts
with normality
a Highland perspective
beyond the realm of tranquillity.
Continuum in miniature
ripples on the shore at night
you hold no secrets at the brink of day
but as night locks the door
on conventional activity
the show still goes on
to the Cognoscenti
of selective mortals.
Bothy and Soul
sitting here alone
with a dramn in my hand
overlooking the moor
and the beauty and the bland
someone lived here once
who I can't quite remember
but the sun shines on Strathan
on the 21st of December
a clutch of knobbly hills
like a great giant's fist
battered by the wind
but now out of the mist
clouds romp overhead
casting imperious shadows
then driving rain pounds away
thoughts of tomorrows
sitting here alone
with a dramn in my hand
huddling the fire
garnering heat so grand
warming my body
and soul to the core
the rain lashed my spirit
but I'm going back for more.
Sandwood Bay
opulent swerves of golden white sand
it's a place where myths and legends still stand
it's a windy place only a fool could deny
it's a place where the sea and the sand meet the sky
shining wet footprints puncture perfection
winter's triangle enhances reflection
it has to be said there's an absence of people
an 'old man' looks on with the lure of a steeple
suffused with lilac on sweet scented air
beauty bold reposed in your stare
a resplendent beach that's second to none
lapped by long turquoise waves in the sun.
Laphroig
I drink the peat
I drink the land
I drink the beauty
I drink the bland
a hint of honey
upon the nose
upon this ground
fresh water flows
I drink the glow
I drink the oak
I drink the gold
I drink the smoke
caramel hills
evening repose
pervading calm
just comes and goes
I drink the music
I drink the notes
I drink the sweet
I drink the cotes
sun slips slowly
out of sight
between the hills
a softer light
I drink the sun
I drink the shine
I drink it's soul
I drink what's mine
I drink the heather
I drink what's grand
I drink the awe
in the Motherland.
Colours of the dawn
early morning bathed in apple blossom pink
mountains white like long wedding gowns
elongated lochs at night, black as ink
tweed of the glen bathed in greens and browns
violet rays of morning shine through the mist
bounteous sky shines biscuit tin blue
mauve, yellow and sepia- on my short list
pastel shades swathed in gunmetal hue
tender emergence of vaults of vermilion
paintbox of colours in gambodge skies
wee bothy on a loch is nature's pavilion
overhead in amber an eagle cries.
clouds draw your veil across the moon
warrior peaks just stand there waiting
curtains fall at the sound of a Loon
ink splattered lochs anticipating
the grip of night in bleak monochrome
the odd kiss of snow just slides off my tent
sleepless and restless, miles from home
deep shuttered gloom of winter's lament.
Full Circle
a ring of ghosts on a ghastly moor
chunks of inexplicable blades of gneiss
they all point straight up towards the sky
each one tells it's own short story
howling winds in the minor keys of twilight
the beauty of a shrill soprano voice
enveloped in silence like a descending veil
incorrigible stones remain in the light
primitive technology or pagan spirituality?
the stones were just like mere passing thoughts
en route to peaks of mundane normality
the rumbling of dawn with a hint of the night
like 'time travelers' in a floating garland of mist
in slanting sun and drifting snow
a circle of hope under the spring of promise
long shadows of the evening and the balm of nature
the passing of time mollifies the ragged silence
eighteen blades of rock play to the gallery
do the platitudes of ignorance escape retribution?
has the incumbents magnum opus evaded responsibility?
Ever recurring dream
drifting potpourri of Far North imagery
cast forth in illusory dreamwaves
the beat of Sango sands
and the hubbub of chatter
strains of Gaelic temperance
banished to the echoes of the past
the Shepherd tends his flock, alone
as the wind races unhampered across the moor
I lose my moorings but blaze a trail
the big White House beckons to come beyond the edge
a rainbow comes and goes
the Shepherd doesn't see me
but knows everything that goes on
because he lives in the White House
everything is quiet and cold
waves soothingly lap the shore in a pervading silence
lonely fences glisten in desolate places
the wind picks up and plays ruefully in the machair
the tonal layers of Faraid Head
are interspersed with smatterings of civilisation
I walked to the Inn in the dead of night
the door was open yet there was nobody there
as I looked out of the window my gaze was caught and held
by such an extraordinary sight
the waves crashed on an insurgent rocky outcrop
the Shepherd stood motionless watching the waves
the Shepherd sensed the invasion and turned in silent aggression
our eyes met through the window as if a plateau of mirror
I suddenly realised I was looking at myself !
it was silent on the moor yet the wind screamed through the fences
only the forgotten obscure tongues of the past
could interpret the esoteric calling of the present
as morning gradually steals it's way into my tent
I can vaguely see a track to the White House
I must embrace the handshake of the Shepherd
and contemplate the future of the dawn.
Perspective
what is it about gaining height?
-the mind altering intoxication
that procures from reaching
the summits of the highest hills!
looking down on things that are so small
that on the ground are just massive
rivers like thin blue snaking ribbons
and people like minute dots.
are our problems that big on the ground?
are our difficulties that insurmountable?
from the top of Ben Sgritheall
on the south east corner of Glen Elg
you can see a preview of Scotland's finest peaks-
lined up like School Children in a 360 degrees shop window
looking down on the wee hamlet of Arnisdale
I see houses the size of shoe boxes... .
and our problems and difficulties ,
the size of mere dots.
The Bridge
looking
gushing
seeing
glistening
thinking
flowing
ruminating
cascading
contemplating
eddying
considering
raining
staring
shining
leaning
plunging
cogitating
swirling
serene
days
roll
in
2
1
.
Dark side of the moon
cast in an imperious cocoon
twinning nature with musical enthusiasm
harnessed between strategical and intrinsical development
waterfalls rhyme with gurgling rivers
mountains dovetail with deep rolling glens
photons suspended between synaptical connections
potholes in time may not necessarily be voids in charisma
a scientist will never stultify spontaneous birdsong,
because ingenuity is the preserve of the arts.
Cycling
a litter of letters and subsequent paraphernalia
were strewn across the office floor
and the desk and the filing cabinets
a brooding corpus, a library of memories
mostly forgotten, some remembered
the wind chased some letters out of an open window
they danced on the surface of a crystal clear loch
I had no option but to pummel myself
on the threshing floor of exertion
pertinent letters are now filed away
the office is tidy once again
special memories are in frames on the wall.
Forgiveness
he held on to the grudge
like apple blossom in may
he fed it and nurtured it
the tree would rustle and sway
then one day he let it drop
like cherry blossom in June
the days are no longer grey
he danced a different tune
there was sunshine all day
the wind blows the petals
gently. gently away.
Idyll- Syre
smoke ascends yet the trees aren't on fire
a church and a farm there's not a lot more
the heather burns and the plumes rise higher
evening sun and soft light on the moor
cycling on through the hamlet of Syre
an unruffled glen, your spirits just soar
please can I live here when I retire
fairy tale land outside your front door
beauty, freedom and nature conspire
bumble bees dancing, butterflies galore
the Naver flows and sings like a choir
take me back there that's the one I adore
let me take you there, let me take you there
down in the valley of sweet scented air.
Rain, Love and Music
sunshine and showers and downpours of rain
without the rain we wouldn't have rivers
West Highland weather always delivers
glistening birch trees in silent refrain
without love we would all lose our mind
because we need love that comes from the heart
a newborn baby needs love from the start
without love people just wouldn't be kind
we all need rain or else nothing would grow
without love we would all go insane
newly painted flowers in natures domain
everyone needs love and rain, that we know
if music be the food of love, play on
the West Highlands will always sing this song.
Making Memories
we were making memories
that's all just making memories
splashes of fun
under the setting sun
laughter on the water
the nights were getting shorter
we were just making memories
just a boat out on the loch
just the freedom of amorok
laughter at the dawn of night
in a body of exquisite light
that's all just making memories
happy memories keep us in the game
through the tears and unexpected pain
I recall the laughter on the water
heaven knows I miss my daughter
happy memories keep us in the game
we had happy times, all the same
we were making memories
that's all
just
making memories.
On Second thoughts ( a short prosaic essay)
snap, hiss, crackle pop, snap, hiss, crackle, pop
dust on the needle, blow it off start again
it soon picks up dust again
snap, hiss, crackle, pop, snap, hiss, crackle, pop
new needle I'm sure that will be fine now
but it jumps all the way through Mozarts romanza
is there any hope? well as a matter of fact, yes there is
technology flexes it's muscles. Enter Compact discs
these little beauties are indestructible
you can touch them, scratch them, spread jam on them
they will never let you down
get rid of all that trashy vinyl
even better sell it, car boot it
sell it to lesser mortals who haven't yet heard of CD's
do it quickly while you still have the chance
with the money you get replace the vinyl with CD's
the musical paradise is here.
what a wonderful world we now have
can you remember the vinyl of the former days?
how it would go snap, hiss, crackle, pop, snap, hiss, crackle, pop
I don't know how we used to put up with it
but I suppose we had no choice, there was nothing else
just hold on a minute though I discern something is not right
all is not well in paradise, something is missing
could it be that the art work that affected my perception
of the music has been compromised?
a CD doesn't make the same visual impact as a gatefold sleeve
how do Roger Dean and Storm Thorgerson feel about this?
actually I do miss the fragrance of the vinyl
and the simple act of placing a record on the turntable
just doing that encapsulated music
when you held a record in your hand
you were holding something special
I guess we overlooked all that
any chance we might be able to turn back?
No! things get worse still
a new generation come along that don't remember the former days
result being, music becomes completely intangible
you can't see it, you can't feel it, you can't hold it
this stultifies the art and progression of music
ruthless moguls have to dredge the nation for every last scrap of talent
for fear that music will become retro in every sense
record shops gradually start to disappear
in the 70's a Saturday morning in the local record shop
was socially more rewarding than the Pub in the evening!
They used to compete with each other
now there may be only one shop in a large city
what now? Well things do appear to go in phases
perhaps vinyl might re-emerge
better and stronger than before
and rescue us from putrid Saturday night TV shows
so that we can once again hold music in our hands
and never ever let go of it again.
The thin blue line
the thin blue line
when the heather is golden brown
the thin blue line
in a pale green water colour
a whitewashed hut
in a wall of pale green
a red roofed bothy
in a sea of golden brown
narrow blue lines
effortlessly gain height
to horizontal lines of ice silver blue
under the golden brown
of the artists brush
approaching the summit
the thin blue lines
become widening pools of ultramarine
the summit holds no secrets
a shelf of lochans
a flotilla of isles
and an endless sea.
and...
 |
| Captured the moment- the instant that the Author realised he was bald! |
To be continued,
KTDA
M.M
