13 days to da Simmerdim – Midsummer, Litha or Johnsmas.
Summer struggles against the mood of our world, resilient and industrious. Already night has turned a dream.
On a light day, the island feels a termite mound: parenting birds defend their chicks against all odds – others race against cosmic clock to lay an egg after a gale. Flowers explode inside meadows… Sheer pleasure for the colourist! As we wander around headlands, we hear their calls, frantic wingbeats, as we collide into their world… A simple wander by the shore turns into single file adventure! Close to our hut, there is a dilapidated harbour and a secluded beach.
A world of rust and organic dominates our meaning of the littoral.
|Thrift at Broonies’ Taing|
Man’s just like a bird on passage. He builds a nest on the shoreline and wanders off, according to the direction of the wind…
Nature sets a home everywhere: amidst the most unexpected, including piles of corroded machines left to teeth and claws of climate and time.
I found sea pinks flourishing in between a bed of metal and mortar! Here, at the Pier, amid concrete… Where chlorophyll reigns like a queen, like an beacon of light and life.
And as we follow the shoreline, we forget lines of massive containers once filled with formic acid to focus on lushness of grass, summer meadows where skylarks and meadow pipits mimic each other for a song. And find orchids among buttercup and cuckoo flowers.
Our small stretch of white sand connects us to the world.
We sometimes find eyes staring at us at the surface of the water.
And then, signatures through a myriad of prints.
They remind us we only exist among them.
And we you look deep inside sand, we imagine a richer world.
There, inside this quadrat of our world, I saw in the sand a stampede of wildebeests eager to reach out to the shore… The blueness of the Simmerdim, as we waded like sanderlings close to the surf.
from one headland to another
if I tire of my familiar tongue of land,I wander off to my other great promontory and watch the world from the edge of the southern tip… On my right, the North Atlantic and on my left, its concubine, the wild North Sea. As they embrace and kiss, waves of seabirds loot the larder. Shalders fly past and feast on greens, as they forage the stone walled fields…
This final leg to midsummer reminds us that we shall soon reach the pinnacle of life; promises planted during spring… Like a finale in waiting by a cohort of musicians eager to share their symphony. In the meantime, sunsets still blaze deep inside skies we sometimes lose in evening mist or lazy clouds.