haar (6/Sept/18)

cometh the haar, cometh the dark-time, light is leaching, time has breached… that bucket won’t be enough, even one without holes to bail out the rushing days which aren’t in themselves in any more of a rush that any year past… it just feels that way as September brings that sinking feeling, in a downward trajectory into winter as though this is a thing to dread albeit temporarily halted by an imaginary respite when the clocks go back one hour resulting in a mass delusion which serves to last no more than a week or two at best before…
before…
before we sink again… this is how some see the year, winter as the lowest ebb, a time between the tides, the slack when nothing much happens… or so that’s what they think… which is followed by a change of gear as buds appear and the time begins to feel itself pulled up by its bootstraps at first in baby-steps then stomping strides into spring when anything and everything is possible, or so that’s what they think, until..
until…
until it finds what it’s been looking for, summer sitting high atop aloof upon its plateau and where time then sits looking at the view and thinking, I’ve made it, all the way, all the way, all the way up to the top of the top…
now what?…
time stops…
or so that’s what they think… all that energy, expenditure, is bound to take its toll and it does, so now, now, how to come down from such a mighty peak of expectations?… follow the tortuous path, yes, there, though it’s more of a sheep-track admittedly and yes it is a bit twisted, unflat, and may at time falls away on one side or the other or sometimes both at once but if you hold you nerve,
hold it,
hold it,
hold it, you might just
make it,
make, it,
make it, but watch your step, mind the gaps… there are always gaps, those inbetweens you’ll find between the things you give a name… don’t worry so much about the loose stones, it’s the leaves on the track you need to keep a watchful eye… but trust in a good pair of sturdy boots, that’s the trick… it’s downhill all the way, but the kind of downhill you might be thinking…
there…
there…
see it… it’s still only barely visible through the haar but it’s there deep in the heartwood of winter beyond the autumn distracting with its scatters of illusions and allusions…
there…
there… winter huddled around a fire… waiting… seems as good an aim as any so perhaps not so ‘downhill’ after all…

© 2018 robert greig

true north (31/August/18)

over the sea and far away
adrift amidst the salt and spray…
a tiny boat did warp and weft
the waves of peaks and troughs
to find itself without a clue
whichever way the wind blew
over the sea and far away
adrift a piece of wood and sail…

“true north
true north!”
the drifter cries
but only gannets hear
“where art thou
true north?”
he sighs
to lapping waves
their crumpling a lullaby
against his hoarse refrains.

over the sea and far away
no one heard him pray
but the gannets burning white
stabbing through a silence stealing
sound until it didn’t make a sound.

© 2018 robert greig

 

… welcome, to the poem at the end of the world…… or August, whichever comes first… … …

seal is broken (22/July/18)

seal is broken….

… it made me sad to think seal, poor seal, poor probably lost and most likely blubbery, seal is broken… broken how, I wondered… physically, or perhaps psychologically, maybe even spiritually… how can you know, you can’t exactly ask a seal, unless you’re another seal and one who even cares enough to take an interest and not be too busy swimming, eating fish and doing banana on rocks… so this seal, this broken seal, is left to its own devices as the Sunday mist sits there in a way only Sunday mists do, lacklustre, disinterested, aimless with no intention of going anywhere but being here which as it happens is exactly what it’s like today, and today being Sunday fits exactly that… the broken seal can’t be best pleased, unless it likes the sensation of the cool fresh water attracted to its coat it like cling-film… he might look around and find nothing more than vague imaginings of shapes in the mist that could just as easily be gorillas as probably the rocks that they are and perhaps the occasional bottling seal perhaps come to check he’s ok without actually checking or simply popped up by chance, as mist’ified as our broken seal balanced on this wave-tickled rock….
… and then…
…… I notice…
……… wording I’d missed (mist?) before … “safety button pops up when…” … when?… tumbling, , stumbling, plummeting and spiralling, descending in a less than nimble way I’m dragged away from such prosaic reverie to find not a seal, or an actual seal, broken or otherwise, staring back but the lid of the jar of mango chutney on which I read the wrong way around… “safety button pops up when… seal is broken”…… and he slips from his rock vanishing into the mirror calm leaving not a single ripple or an echo or a second glance from blackwater eyes……

© 2018 robert greig