bowling for gulls (16/June/18)

there be gulls nesting by the bowling green… not quite dragons I know but they give a good dive-bombing and shout, boy do they shout when one dares step across that invisible threshold within striking distance of the white-washed brick edifice underscored with moderately-comfortable wooden-slat seating where one would normally perch ones bottom to drink in the long view, way down the Strait to a and far, far away, to the wind turbines dutifully lined in tidy array harvesting breezes with a turn of the screw… sit oneself on the other side of the shelter gazing westward and be confronted with bowls, truly the beautiful game and not that antagonistic football, played by gentlefolk, of the fiercely competitive kind, with the focus of hawks and a humble gentility (as humble as the fiercely-competitive can be) the epitome of sportsmanship, unless… there’s no game  to which one can turns one attention to an empty green shaved within an inch of its root that as flat as a pancake with tiny trickeries of subtle undulations over this over-groomed surface here and there that only the keen or experienced bowler will see, beyond which the bridge ever-looming and framing the scene with familiar intent… and then there be gulls who have chosen the roof of the shelter to furnish a nest to harbour their eggs which in turn become hatchlings which in turn become chicks they protect with a fervour, with cries and with screams, swoops and with squawks and the finely-tuned eyes against all and any weary unwary soul seeking refuge, a sit with a view only to find, for now at least, that until comes a time that the gulls deem to fledge their welcome will surely be less than welcoming… so for now there be gulls, the shelter-gulls, who I bet when no one is looking might sneak in a quick game of bowls for themselves………

© 2018 robert greig

under-sound (3/May/18)

now the blackbird’s spending time in the under-sound with only the cadence of shadows for company the robin takes pole position as prime progenitor of first lights song… a trickle of water discarded from an air-locked tap, his voice appears in organic tremata only there when you listening, and when you don’t mocking the shape of the background and bound to another time… testing the air to see what moves and what doesn’t, enduring a shift from silence to sonancy… stirring is kept to a minimum, even the jackdaws know that… unless you’re a gull, ever-restless, unafraid, an impatient patience, not in the least bit daunted…… beginnings matter, everything that follows is just padding, static, interference, repetition, repetition…. there’s always the first to steal the days virginity, after that, mundanity, repetition, repetition and falling through the thin ice of a new day… some believe it’s the same robin year in year out for five, ten, twenty years or more in the garden gargling its rotation notation… not likely, in that time there could easily have been ten generations of robins, give or take…… a blink for a lifetime, but then trees most likely think the same about us.. boom, boom, out go the lights……

© 2018 robert greig

big wheel keeps on turning (5/April/18)

… yesterday…

the big wheel turned against and despite of the weather-worn weather weathering  and rendering the mountains into cloud a sky so heavy as to scrape my scalp against… it stops, one person boards, around it goes again, one car with one person soon be sitting on top of the world, or at least obscured by clouds against the grey refrain of the day… rain falls with a quiet persistence, sometimes more so sometimes less so but always so… the big wheel turns regardless, one person in one car…… people eating ice cream under awnings watching winter in spring and arms reach away… precipitation quietly persists…… a castle looking quite at home, its dour, stone-carved audacity looking so clumsy on a sunny day seems to fit right in now, amidst the cavernous grey from which  the rain, the rain, the rain remains restrained, for now… from its walls the big wheel turns, one person in one car… such unforgiving walls, something for a rainy day perhaps… perfect…… the walls steal away the present supplanting the dregs from another time that lingers on the lips of ghosts, waiting, waiting, waiting to be spoken…… cold, dank, desperate, dark, its miserable persona coming into its own, attractive, alluring, enticing… an air of detached inevitability… gulls guard the walls… what do they remember, know?… passed down through generations, gull-lore… they keep telling us but we don’t listen, “surely they’re just laughing at us”, we say… well, would you blame them… the moat retains a multitude of sins, denying the eye access, lacklustre in reflections… and the big wheel keeps on turning, one person in one car, round and around… a gull-eyes view…… gull-envy…… determined souls determined to endure/ enjoy their holiday, their travel/ travails… all this way for… this?…… worry not, tomorrow will be spring again, that’s the way we roll around here, round and around on the big wheel turning, one person in one car… … … …

© 2018 robert greig