Category Archives: summer

Hairst

Seasonal gathering of silage.

Hairst

Da shalders* have moved on. Da playing fields, once

more silent.

Their flight calls,

memories.

As

summer’s

sliding into Hairst,

wir hame sky changed

its song; tis now

time for

sheepdogs,

shriek calls from

young blackbirds still

clad in brown

feathers;

mass

gathering of

life around cliffs and

headlands, our

first sign of

winter.

Now

silage

rolled in bails,

the winged world can

move on, our

gulls will

fill a

sky and

join Aeolus in

his quest for new songs.

8 Aug 2020.

NH

#

Golden Plover in cotton grass

Poet’s Notes

Hairst means harvest, and is also the Shetland name for autumn, derived from Norwegian Høst & German Herbst…

Shalders, the Shetland name for oystercatchers.

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survival

July.

Tis already time to return… Cross back oceans, straits, continents. Here is a piece I offer you in high summer from my boreal latitude. It is entitled “Survival” as inspired by Red-Necked Phalaropes, Oystercatchers and all those great avian migrants in search of warmth, food, survival.

juv Tern, Shetland, 5 July 2020. En route to a journey clocked at some 12,500 miles…

Survival

Two storks above the Sahara, in

search of food beyond

gold sand;

the price of life, or

survival to

reach their home south of

sly dunes,

the Sea of Sand;

free from

boreal equinox,

they have to trek back to

the sun, where

grass stalks grow so bountiful, where

birdsong beat ice, icicles,

night and unknown –

heaven so

bright,

ephemeral, as

winged nomads strive to

survive…

But

when I look at

our own kind, the one that

cage or kill them all,

lose drifting nets,

trap to get

gold,

I

say

we lost

sense of it all;

our right to live as visitors is

not worthy of Mother

Earth.

Life or survival,

gift or curse,

now

bow to greeting albatross.

© NH 2020.

Red-Necked Phalarope, 5 July 2020.

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Summer Song

I am

the blackbird perched out loud,

serenading to wind and

fog;

I am the voice

between branches,

whisper from the breeze

evening skjump *

I am the crooner of hillsides,

the long billed one in

solstice grass…

I am

the invisible song,

the one that slashes through

silence – finds meaningfulness on

fence posts, offers feathers to

drum and Earth to advertise

love and presence in

hope to be heard by the sky.

And watch your spirit

chirp and thrive, as

time tick-tocks to

Earth’s cycle;

sparkling

sparrow in stereo,

the one that chirps out of nowhere…

I am daylight beyond belief,

the one that clads night

azure blue –

grey or

plain white according to

wandering fog.

I am what they call da Simmer Dim.

© NH 2020.

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Da May Snaa

Da May snaa juist does’na exist,

da flukra,

juist a bairn’s daydream,

peerie man’s imagination –

a moorie caavie i’da bowl, laek beremael gröl… Far tae

white fur

da Simmer Dim;

far tae cauld fur

da Mayflooer,

da kattiklu or

da blugga.

© Nat Hall 2020

Snow in May… Not a daydream.

The May Snow

The May snow just does not exist,

The gentle fall of fat snowflakes, just

a child’s daydream,

little boy’s imagination –

a blizzard in a bowl, like

porridge oats, far too

white for

a summer’s night;

far too cold for

our primroses,

bird’s foot trefoil…

marigold.

© Nat Hall 2020

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Unst

Unst is my summer/autumn “pilgrimage”.

Filled with magical wildness, Vikingness and wildlife, it is the said island RLS chose as – in terms of outline – his treasure island for the purpose of his famous novel…

An island fit for exploration and adventures that will unveil so many treasures…

And speaking of treasures, two nights ago, I found a treasure in which a poem was sleeping in a pocket-size moleskin I once took with me to this top of my northerly archipelago (well as north as “inhabited” can go!) – the edge of my world.

In this precious notebook, I travelled back to those late July days where a friend and I returned to a favourite beach – Eastings, Sandwick, Unst – Uyesound, Baltasound, Skaw, Norwick, Hermaness and its nearby Boat Station… Magic places I never tire of. That summer was that in 2017.

AUDIO VERSION available https://soundcloud.com/nordicblackbird/unst-wir-treasure-island-by/s-bTquKktEyE8

Sandwick Beach, Unst

This poem is entitled

Unst, Wir Treasure Island

1. Sandwick Beach

Inside your hood, you hide and smile –

eyes riveted to horizon, that gang of tirricks above surf,

that perfect beach lost inside blue,

home to sanderlings and solans,

the Moon’s best friend, whatever tide.

Note:

Tirrick: Arctic (or common Tern); Solan: Gannet

Dratsie (otter) at Sandwick Beach, 27/7/17

2. Dratsie

Out of the sea an otter runs,

fur filled with dreams,

walks out on sand.

Boat Station, off Hermaness

3. Island Life

Bonxie, Loch of Cliff – female Dunters, Hermaness, Boat Station – meadow pipit chick on roadside – Tysties and Rock Pipits, Boat Station – Solans off Boat Heaven, Haroldswick… Dratsie fishing in the bay with its head popping up – two Swallows, Saxavord Resort – Pied Wagtail, 2 Raingjus at Norwick…

Note:

Bonxie: Great Skua, Dunters: Common Eiders, Tystie: Guillemot, Raingjus: Red-Throated Diver.

Norwick Beach

4. Norwick Shalls

You walked back ta da Noost wi shalls,

a braally treasure i’da haands;

da sheenie kind,

better dan silver, gold an aa.

And from da Shetland Dialect:

You walked back to the top of the beach with shells,

A fine treasure in your hands;

the shining kind,

better than silver, gold and all.

Any’s shalls 🙂

5. Skaw

A’da end o’da boannie road dat takks dee awye fae da sea,

follow da steinshakkers,

da lone clood an da wind-

da ocean bed, raw serpentine

Dere is a meadow a’da end,

a bed o eyebright an a stream –

Eden shaped up couleur croissant.

Any at da Lang Hoose (Harodswick, Viking Unst Project)

6. Da Lang Hoose

Inside da laang hoose wir entered, an fun fowr chairs chiselled by haands oot’ o pine trees…

As if spirits invited wis fur a laang yarn or juist fur mead.

Dere wis nae fire i’da hearth, bit wir felt hame, sae wir sat doon.

Inside da Laang Hoose, Haroldswick.

And from the Shetland Dialect:

6. The Long House

Inside the long house we entered and found four chairs chiselled by hands out of pine trees…

As if spirits invited us for a long chat or just for mead.

There was no fire in the hearth, but we sat down.

Da hearth 🙂

© Nat Hall 2020 (revisited from regional verse initially penned 27-29 July 2017).

For you, Any, intrepid adventurer, with love.

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So

What happens between equinoxes remains a mystery.

…A black hole or stravaig in a desert where time locks itself in, as bubbles inside surf, or footprints lost through tides and gales.

Many walks done and gone. I still remember the Vernal Equinox, as March gave way to light and warmth. When birds returned to the island, and jenny wrens perched on roses to sing their songs, joined by blackbirds at dawn and dusk. A song so powerful, explosive and whimsical, you need to turn back and listen.

And as May comes with its unbound clemence, and shiny bright, stars vanish in the blue of night, as Beltane gives way to summer.

Summer, summer, da Simmer Dim, as our sky turns an opera house. Our island sings in tussock grass, around the bays – above our heads. It is a time filed with bounty, as our summer guests fish and hunt. A time where life fills with colours, where chicks grow feathers outwith dark. Darkness unknown to so many of us and fledlings until Arcturus reappears in late July. Our Atlantic and sense of North glow back orange. We then reignite our candles. In this mystical universe, the very few urban dwellers welcome July with refracting light in the bay. They do not question the great clock – the astronomical delight as da mirkin wins back its way. mirkin, murky times lie ahead…

Some walk through time on land, at sea.

As August wanes in honey gold, our most westerly land beacon feels a poltergheist at sunset. Foula, foul, fugl Island, with its bewildering cliff tops, redefines ife, geometry. Light as we knew from Simmer Dim – our nightless nights – lose in power, intensity. Our path to hairst and the autumnal equinox becomes clearer.

It is when night unveils its kaleidoscope of gales and stars. And we look more carefully, auroral glows in between clouds. Our pace hastens as we go home to the fire back in our hearths. Too soon the tides will speak out loud, and auroras trapped inside clouds will signal a new phase across the season. Few gannets fly, fish in the bay. Rose flowers gave way to their own fuits. The overgrowth lost its lushness… A lower sun shines through few leaves from alders or strong willows. That sense of blue tarnished with grey has lost its way. Deep purple hills back to bracken, bare and so brown.

September stepped in as a thief. October followed in its grace. Each wake-up call from our bedside triggers the start of each sunrise. Each minute lost now and regained, days have shortened and yet, still bright. I hear Sawhain’s still a long shot… Our winged friends wander south and south. For us, dwellers of thre island, we need to prepare for dark times.

Now, the island can sleep in peace, with auroras, constellations, stars and comets – a twany moon there as a friend.

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Mørkin (2)

I toy with the thought of
touching the Moon that
hangs out in
this dark blue sky;
and as
tide turns in
your favour, on that last weekend of
July,
I feel its pull, rolled up in
clouds.
I lit a tea light in your name, and
let the lantern on the deck, for
you to find me in
the dark,
mørke, mørkin, in murky night, where
the Moon shies here in
thin clouds, between my world and
summer tides – where Angle shades fly to the flame, where your voice vanishes with
night.

© Nat Hall

Sandwick, 26 July 2018.

 

Note: Mørkin, from the Norwegian, mørke, dark(ness)

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wunderhübsch (#wearewoman #4)

 We are woman, we are beautiful.

When it comes to the Nordic connection, the web widens as we network. This is exactly what happened with a kindred spirit from Hamburg, as we began to mingle via Instagram, followed by Facebook. Northwhile, alias Diana Lukas-Nülle, is a lover of all things north, wild, sheepish, travel, design, hearts carved by nature and write. I love the way she speaks about the light, north, snow, Norway or Fair Isle…  Whilst she insists how I would love Iceland. Funny how we eventually met in Shetland on her way to the Hebrides.

Diana Melby Aug 2017.jpg

Photo by Nordicblackbird

This intrepid north wanderer returned to an island she loves and has a pied-à-terre, as she had a contract with a knitting designer and Misa Hay to design this year’s WoolWeek Magazine.  On two occasions, we met and shared by the water – in Melby, where we watched an otter playing in the bay whilst we savoured some homemade cake we found and bought from a local box; and at Ninian Sands, where we marvelled at the magic of the Atlantic, a wondrous sky, changing light and the shape of clouds… We spoke deep words, found some hearts fashioned in stone and felt the wings of the maalie, my favourite seabird the Fulmar (Petrel) I love to nickname “Jonathan”, for this long distant relative of the albatross seems to fly for fun – and sometimes at very close quarter!

Some enchanting evening we pursued at my humble hut for a splash of homemade lamb curry and a hope to see Northern Lights after twilight. Of all those moments shared, the one that prompted a poem was triggered as we walked along da shoormal  (that area in the shallows…) on that bridge of shell and sand. Diana was combing in search of something specific, whilst I was gathering my own pocketful of treasures.

This prompted the following poem.

For you, D. L-N.,

for your friendship & cunning eye.

 

Heart Hunter

 

On the great bridge of sand and shell,

she untied her shoes and

walked free to

feel the pulse of each sandgrain,

blue of evening and

Atlantic;

by the shoormal where dark sand shifts,

she imprinted her higher self,

eyed washed off

stones

spewed by

vile tides, hunting for

hearts molten in

rock,

hearts in shingle, or tidal shaped, among

plovers and sugar kelp –

what the Moon pulls in between

stars, thin waterline,

polished

nacre.

She came to walk to an island,

she entangled time in

rollers,

smiled at the world’s greatest tiara,

gifted my hearth with two

new stones,

her heart and mind still in

sandgrains.

 

NH, 2017

dianas heart

She said one day she will own sheep… She’s still to find her home island. In the meantime we share that passion for the Nordic realm – Norway, Norge – island life, light, wild & remote, hearts molten in anything natural and photography.

 

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Bressay

Lerwick Harbour [1]It takes a day to meet and share an adventure.

In anticipation to meeting a kindred spirit at the Bressay Ferry Terminal – en route to the most westerly point of the island – came that invisible bridge between two harbours, tied by one stretch of water, our very Bressay Sound. From April to September, many seaworthy crafts come to anchor or to moor in our waters… And Leirna criss-crosses like a spider.

Bressay, the great sheltering whale-shaped island just opposite our only town, stands between two worlds I love.

My visiting friend, who  emerged from the ferry with two Bressay residents I know so well, had freshly arrived from this other side of the North Sea, via Bergen. She too was ready for a great adventure, in the hope to see an otter among our many local wild treasures. As I waited for her on the Lerwick side, came a poem.

 

Bressay

 

Alexandra Wharf on a Sunday afternoon, where

feet wander between islands, and

boats are tied to

known

bollards;

I look at you from

my town side, between

the Knab & Kebister.

You, inside

waves,

in

between Hay’s Dock and Bryggen, where

clouds fly past, white,

oblivious; where

fishermen anchored in hords to

fill barrels with

scales and

salt,

silver darlings –

we share the sea, wharves,

dark box beds, cracks in floorboards,

lead diamond shapes from old windows, as two towns rose,

rust, labyrinth of wood and salt,

two stories tied where

folk wander off

a ferry and

imprint their lives on tarmac… And still

remember old cobbles.

I’m still counting

ripples and

tides,

ink and blotches from well-kept books somebody wrote on

Bergen side –

countless columns,

whole salesman’s world.

But you stand firm against each gale,

shelter my side of the

harbour,

and

when

I look at your

portside, I see the meadows of summer,

the great white whale

clad inside

snow.

NH, 2017

 

Oh, we saw that otter in Sandness, and savoured cake, as we sat on the edge of the pier.

dratsie at Melby 13 Aug 2017

 

 

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redcurrants

redcurrants.jpg Monsieur Proust had his madeleine, I have my summer berries…

Loved my Sunday yesterday. Ingirid invited a small paty of us to play with her in her garden. She is at the helm of a magical eden where everything seems to grow in both open air and in polytunnels… Just magic. A list of tasks were clearly scribbled on postcards. Ingirid pointed out two areas: peaches to be harvested from well established trees in one polycrub, and, that secluded corner where gooseberries, black and redcurrants ripen in the sun. So much flew back inside my poet’s mind. Whilst the first task was achieved at lightning speed, that latter harvest heaved a bowlful of those tiny summer gems, as well as poetics.

As in micropoetry form at first…

 

Les groseilles

petits fruits rouges, en grapes, en vrac,

entre martinets et sourires,

là où le temps

tournait

en

rond.

Redcurrants

Peerie red fruits clinging like grapes

in between swifts & smiles,

there, when time

locked in a

circle.

and then, as a poem,

 

Redcurrants

 

You, scarlet gems so well hidden.

So delicate, in

one corner of a garden, where my hands search in between

leaves, guardians of time – where

time writes fate in

chlorophyll…

I still

remember when

I first found you as a child,

crouched against earth and loneliness,

that thin mesh, invisible cage to let the sun work

miracles after each battering of rain.

You, tiny gems so well

hidden, you

are

precious stones of summer.

 

NH 2017

 

Later, a feast awaited us as we gathered in the garden to share a marvellous Sunday afternoon. I love gardening parties. So much to enjoy from such capsules of time.

Thank you, Ingirid 🙂 

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