the hitcher

I spent so many nights on the roadside, I came back home with a lantern.

Miles of darkness, cloaked inside white, with an ankle strapped to endure grit and tarmac, the very edge of the known world – with resilience as an ally, I made my way amidst hitchers, kindred spirits. On my way home, I found all sorts of cars and other four-wheeled vehicles. Apocalyptic, teenagers’, knitted (aye, a very Shetland tradition) – even a Volvo filled with free running spirits that came alive as dancers glided through darkness – amazing cars and occupants. A camper van so hospitable… And a bus. A bus filled with wild stories. “Through the window, I can see, I can see, I can see…”

I braved the unknown after dusk and dared to knock on car windows – hopped my north in between Brae and Cullivoe, via Bigton, Levenwick & Ninian – where theatres are void of walls; where The White Wife (originally from the most northerly isle of Unst) waves at lone cars, eyes and hitchers. She too travels in the same way. In any case, she seems to protect

us with one reassuring waving hand. And then we find her once again inside a village hall, where she serves tea & ignites smiles

with her army of white aproned choir-waiters. each journey starts without control.

Have you ever wondered about strange and peculiar things that happen through your life? Your car or sense of ignition? Have you ever noticed how life can sometimes fall under a spell or a strange jinx?

Such was my own journey in the past months… Funny how tarmac turns into the middle of nowhere – a headland or a precipice. You never know till you taste tarmac and the kerbs. “Sit back and enjoy the ride!”

As a hitcher,

I find my way in between junctions & ferry terminals. From Hay’s Dock to Cullivoe, via narrow roads, miles of  dreamt cats’ eyes, white lines and stops. I, forgotten ghostly figure, suddenly turn storyteller, who sometimes waves at The White Wife… Meet with others who have their own story to share,

whatever they carry with them – a broken shoe, heart, or milk jug…

a frozen trow, gnome, skimming stone,

camera or ukulele…

In the footsteps

of one

white wife.

And then,

the Final Gathering.

We all gathered for a last leg of ignition, inside the middle of nowhere, where we could burn and ask where next…

Dancer, hitcher, storyteller, free runner-performer, choir-waiter or musician.

We shared our words through the beauty of ignition,

made new songs, drank tea & soup,

thanked hosts and friends,

and sang our hearts out to the world.

Some felt a new journey has begun. It is my case. Let us define the next stretch of road 🙂

IGNITION through CAR YARNS – with shared notable words:

Road runner –
roaring rubber & clicking clutch,
red scent of dead flesh on tarmac…
#haiku fae #60N

Boy racer –

to every change of gear,
quartet of ravens by the road.
#haiku fae #60N

Stitch-hiker –
needles off the speedometers,
I knit,you knit by the roadside.
#haiku fae #60N

Shiny alloys,
rings of fire on wet tarmac,
cyclops’ eyes
with numbers inside
circles of chrome –
somebody left
cold wax on hazelnut dashboard.
#micropoetry fae #60N

Now, let me enjoy my lantern 🙂