November 3, 2009
Losing Identity; becoming Cyclonic
The white clouds are gone
The days are becoming shorter
and darkened by a ubiquitous grey sky.
The green becomes yellow, becomes brown,
becomes skeletal and soft underfoot.
The paths that were once footsure
and easy to negotiate
are now either traps of sucking mud
or flowing streams.
The stream is now the river;
what was once the gentle ambient plink plonk
of random xylophones
is now the violent death metal torrent
of sibilant snarling whites
and the rumbling boulder subsonics of the tanic brown sludge
washing minerals down into the sea loch
Dissolving the mountains just a little bit more.
Gone are the twilights of flirting owls
and here are the winds of gusting howls.
Gone are the itches of the insect bites
and here are the cold toes and fingers.
The never ending nights.
The moths in headlamps
swapped for your own breath.
Radio signals bent by the gales.
Rockall, Malin becoming cyclonic
Losing identity
Falling slowly.
Sailing By.
