The geopoetician who animates my heart, hand and pen never ceases to realise moments in time are held in snowflakes or in dew…
I am continuing to network with kindred spirits whilst the spirit of Ms Crusoe wanders along on an island that sings life through seasons.
April rhymes with freedom, this enchanting earth song elevated through the cacophony of birds – curlews, blackbirds, wrens, starlings (the greatest feathery imitators at 60N!) golden plovers… Skylarks and our everlasting chattering sparrows.
April is the return of the mind-blowing light that overrides wir mørkin (darkness) now we are back in BST. I noticed dusk and twilight are flirting later to my great delight. To the poet, it colours my sense of bliss. And I can only pray Father Sky’s clemency increases as we now walk more confidently towards Beltane.
April allows my child within to reconnect with the now and here.
Today again, I experienced stillness capsules that are tattooed in my heart forever. I watched raingjus glide on water, a pied wagtail tiptoeing on the edge of a burn… I listened to whistling swallows and wigeons. Spring in its glory as daffodils bowed to the fresh South Westerlies…
There is no doubt we are swinging towards summer.
And yet, Father Sky seems to lose sight of the moment. As if he was blending winter and spring a little longer…
On the night of the great eclipse on the other side of the Atlantic, I watched a sky blending colours as I had not seen in moons… A real sunset (pictured above) and prayed we might marvel once more at wir Mirrie Dancers (Aurora Borealis) before May steals them till August.
There are still a few days left till I return to the indoors world…
Mind you, when the last bell rings, I will not linger much inside. 😊
However, let’s keep our bubble of now the most important one, as tomorrow does NOT exist!
That spell of snow in March hindered the return of colours all around us.
And as Ostara came and went, the promise of spring – wir voar – eventually appeared in spite of cold air still around. Father Sky has its own sense of humour – call it the sword of Damocles… Jekyll & Hyde.
Yet Mother Earth has her own agenda, and urge to burst in many forms. Vegetal or animal, Arcania is waking again. And as April is unfolding, our quintessential harbingers of spring appear under our eyes, filling our hearts with that same joy.
From leaf budding to flower blossom, da voar is surrounding us. Already, my most immediate garden is speaking,
I need to watch when I’m treading when reaching out to the washing line (!) as daisies, dandelions and bluebells (awaiting to flourish) are erupting all around…
At the start of the spring holiday, young Alfie cleared the remnants of last summer’s quadrats of tall grass in an effort to regenerate the meadow. Already, sparrows and blackbirds have begun to make use of cut grass blades left behind for nesting material. Our garden dwellers are establishing territory all around each corner of da tun (groups of human settlements).
Further afield, da voar displays its many threads of magic. Added to the kindness of Father Sky, light shines in every eye and every heart.
As far as the eye can see, the island is welcoming life again. Our avian summer visitors are gradually making way back to their ancestral breeding grounds. Cliff ledges, clefts, skerries or stacks – hillsides, lochs, mires… Heath or peatlands.
They are investing the homeground we share. What more joyous than renaissance?
Every new meeting with a hill sporrow (meadow pipit) laverick (skylarks) sten-shakker (northern wheatear) raingjus (red-throated diver) or a tammie norie (puffin) proves enchanting every time. Our reunion with our natural world.
Those iconic creatures add to those arrived a little earlier in the year: from the multicoloured shelduck to the shalder (oystercatcher) that have been toiling to display love through their courtship. A new cycle of life restated in earnest.
And yet da voar is showing signs and question marks. Whereas swallows and swifts, chiffchaffs, siskins, goldcrests and willow warblers have erupted around the island in precocious ways, entire cliff faces famously occupied by certain species, including gannets and common guillemots or kittiwakes remain deserted in places… Last year’s spell of avian influenza notably decimated gannets & great skuas, da bonxie, so notorious as a thief, and yet so crucial as a muckraker – usually keeping bird colonies healthy by predating on unhealthy, sick or injured birds… The irony. Their function on Earth as keepers of healthy colonies in times of plenty for its own species (the great skua, like its cousin, the Arctic skua) is above all a fisher bird, yet fell prey to a virus created to regulate numbers…
More surprisingly, common guillemots looked a little late back on their stack at my favourite headland on Saturday evening. They usually invest their ancestral breeding grounds before puffins arrive… Only a pair sighted at Smithfield Stack. Unless… Unless, they stayed at sea when I reconvened with their cousins, since guillemot and puffin (together with razorbills) belong to the same family.
Kittiwakes also missing on their abrupt cliff face…
The island’s most southerly tip – Sumburgh Head – so famously renowned for its bountiful wildlife is yet to home a new generation of seabirds, delighting us all.
A point so famous to travellers and sailors, made safer by Robert Louis Stevenson’s father & family builders of lighthouses around Scotland, my favourite headland has this feeling of a world end. It is so precious for life.
I will come back and keep vigil, for every new visit sparks light and excitement in my heart.
It is a magic place to watch the world unfold in its precious and yet at times rawest moments.
Fitful and Quendale Bay from Sumburgh Head, 8 Apr 2023.
Harvesting fruits out of projects – to the poet, tis the moment to celebrate words ripe enough to shine and echo through folk’s hearts…
Months turned in weeks, as Mother Earth waltzes in grace amid the void and songs from stars, light from our Sun reminds of life – from the vegetal to birdsong, September shines and celebrates.
Fleurs de saison, like seeds of life from a planet en route to changes of her own… Let’s reel seasons, as the island sings and flowers – where life as free as flocks of birds comes to da loch to drink or bathe.
Tis that moment I celebrate.
Clumlie Loch shared at WordPlay 2021.
Tis the same that has journeyed from hills and burn (stream) down to the sea to settle among other greats and less known voices in two towns, Lerwick and Edinburgh, through the summer.
Clumlie Lochcelebrates wild life – tis where we witness wilderness as important as rainforests or melting ice at either poles… Because it homes essence of life.
Clumlie Loch at the Virtual Exhibition by the the WWF Scotland’s Great Scottish Canvas Initiative, 18-26 Sep ’21 during Climate Fringe.
Today, The Great Scottish Canvas has begun to display it in a virtual exhibition. Such an honour to map Shetland to the greatest of Earth Summits.
It will feature in November among others and other art forms – 45 in total , from 45 Scottish voices, poets, writers, visual artists and sculptors… 45 voices to trigger a beam of hope for life on Earth… Our survival as a species and for our homeworld, natural.
Teeming life at Clumlie Loch, 2021.
Nature, so inspiring, our garden of Eden, we ought to protect at all costs.
Let’s hope and pray, our words and works speak to all world leaders in Glasgow. Like Jackie Kay, Scottish icon as a poet & former Makar – she, the insatiable optimist – I believe in wisdom and future in which children will bloom and grow in a rich world where animals and plant can live.
I feel humbled, honoured and chuffed for Clumlie Loch to feature among Jackie’s and others’ works, blown up on walls to they eyes and hearts of all COP26 participants.
Let’s enjoy Hairst and life on Earth, where our hearts beat.
So much water run through da burn (stream) down to the sea and the ocean, gushing, flowing through da burra, hedder (heather) an paets (peat/turf) keeping us lush beyond nightless nights, Simmer Dim, our eclipsed stars for a moment.
The island has recovered its magical colour palette, Van Gogh luminous style. Through May and June, yellow dominated our roadsides, anchored on water (like Marygold) or mires…
Hues of pink, shades of our Earth preceded white, blotching the greens of our meadows. Delicate petals decorate the narrowness of the landscape; and yet homing our seasonal opera house to the delight of wanderers.
Tis a privilege to listen.
Our ground nesters braved continents, gales, rain and hail to duplicate love in their genes . They picked ancestral patches of peatland, brae (hillside) or grass where they disappear until July…
Wild home world
And yet summer feels short for us all on the island, humans and avifauna.
Banks’ broos (cliffs) lochs an lochans (lakes, big and small) have been teeming with life too, as parenthood fledged around irises or thrift and sea mayweed.
Fresh water world
A privilege to hear them call, or watch them so vulnerable. Our headlands turn operatic till mid-July.
Life on the precarious edge of ocean…
And already, in this season of abundance, da hairst (harvest) has begun, as silage tumbled and wrapped for da winter.
We, islanders on such northern latitude, are privileged with a single hundred days of crop growth in open ground. Silage cut offers open air restaurants to both local and migrating birds from all around the boreal region. Our position in the ocean remains pivotal in their survival for the great trek back south.
Preparing for winter whilst sharing with nature.
And until night returns and we veer back towards the autumn equinox, tis a window of teeming life and overgrowth, on the land, on beaches where colours thrive; inside our wicks an voes (wide and narrow inlets of sea) wildlife flourishes and flows.
Tis simply magic!
Life on this dear Auld Rock.
Now I am fully reconnected with it all.
And wishing you, each and everyone, a wonderful summer fae 60N!
Imbolc welcomed Brigid as a maiden, clad in immaculate snowflakes.
Tis beautiful, so beautiful to look at. Who has not ever marvelled at such wondrous land, sky and ice scapes? Till now, February has been generous to us in terms of calm white & blue days. Yes, we just need to leave home a little earlier to de-ice the car… But what a pleasure to breathe in that crisp air and allow the sun to warm our epidermis and our hearts…
And even if our boreal sun strengthens in power through longer daylight and elevation, we, islanders from the great far north, have to make do with these polar conditions. As weird as it might sound, we have yet to learn that waddling technique so natural to penguins to stay up on our feet (!). A recent report from one of our local newspapers recorded a higher incidence of some 40 admissions to A&E linked to ice… Broken limbs, strains & sprains – as well as sledging accidents. Whereas folk still seem to favour the famous wellies (those yellow or khaki rubber boots) to tread on ice, I have adopted snow boots and grippers… And they have proven so lifesaving on many occasions.
And if wellies, waddling or grippers fail, then, our Antarctic flightless birds have also shown us another safer way to move swiftly… The belly sliding technique, as frequently used by, notably, Emperor penguins (!). And what more fun than this? Just look at kids having fun on ice… They use a similar technique. Note: I very much doubt many of us – human bipeds – adopt such a technique except for fun. 🥶
We have been so iced since January the whole Kingdom Animalia (including us, humans) depends on adaptations for survival.
Ice has continued to infiltrate our lives around our island world, and no creature is spared. Our winter survivors have to endure such harsh conditions. They may have developed their own adaptations, yet they still have to bear the brunt of it all.
Whereas ponies have thick winter coats and thick hooves to provide insulation from iced ground, air and wintry showers & storms, birds rely on their respective layers of feathers called down. Some often stand on one leg to maximize insulation from freezing water or ground… All need to shelter to ensure survival. They don’t dwell very long on open ground, unless heavily coated – like ponies or highland cows – or fleeced like sheep.
Birds need all the tall grass, thickets and trees they can find around our valleys, hillsides and human gardens to survive.
Recently, I have not only noticed more visiting starlings, sparrows and blackbirds to the feeders at home, but far less common visitors, such as a young Song Thrush and a Redwing.
The human obligation to work from home (even on a part-time basis) allows for better nature watching from the comfort of our own home, as well as providing food for avian ground feeders on a more regular basis. Our Chief Executive encourages us to reconnect with nature for our own wellness… In my case, she is preaching the lifelong converted (!).
Each sunrise feels a new adventure!
Like you all in the northern hemisphere, I am becoming a little eager to welcome Ostara, the Vernal Equinox. It will come in due time, however, I am also savouring the magic of snowflakes, as well as Mother Earth’s slow re-awakening and the gradual return of some of our summer migrating visitors… Our avian friends!
November, month of hellery – this fine Shetland dialect word that encapsulates the worse from the sky in the form of storms of any kind – enshrouded in darkness since daylight feels more and more elusive.
Hel, hell, hellery, as 2020 has never matched our expectations; held us hostage within our walls, and loved ones disappear…
Spaekalation – another fine Shetland dialect word that translates as gossip – is a raw piece written at night, as an attempt to deal with both the savagery of the sky and a sudden and an unexpected bereavement. This poem was first written in the dialect and then translated in English
spaekalation
Whit's yun?
Is yun a gooster or a ghoul?
Twa goggly eens i'da tree,
is yun an owl o some kind?
Ta da dare-say o'da mirken, da vaelensi is juist
begun;
dey say dat ghosts ir among wis,
waanderin, lone, aroond wir laand - dy an
me hoose,
da tattie crö, barn an byre -
dey say dey travel wi da flan an da snitter,
skid juist laek bairns apö
da snaa an glerl o ice,
hide i'da white o'da moorie ta
mind da reek o chimney stacks.
Dey say dey sit by da fire atween
da caird an da wirsit -
da Slockit Licht,
crabbit embers ta keep
da memory alive.
Deir shadows
glide alaang da waa,
listen ta da saang o'da nicht.
----
Gossip
What's this?
Is that a messy gust of wind or just a ghoul?
Two goggly eyes inside a tree,
is it an owl of some kind?
To the hear-say of dusk,
That brisk downpour has just begun;
They say that ghosts are among us,
wandering, lone, around
the land, my and
your house,
the spud corner, barn and cowshed -
they say they travel with wind gusts or biting cold air,
Saoirse the Cat, tended and out, released from her nocturnal curfew, remains oblivious to any weekday or clock change… To her, daybreak demands my care and attention, as a new day calls from the sky .
November, month of shorter days, storms and shine. Sunrise reddens hillsides and refracts on window panes… Tis the time to break your fast with starlings that came to raid the bird feeders and forage frantic through rot and golden leaves roses littered to feed the ground.
Tis morning at sunrise on the eighth day of November.
Days, precious days, where time whirl inside oceanic rollers… And light vanishes for long nights. Every minute counts, as life depends on it.
To watch a sundown and wonder at it, listening to the Atlantic, incessant music from our Earth, and feel at one with the divine.
Priceless, mindful and so humbling.
Tis a time where the island welcomes dwellers for winter, from the planet or colder climes. Mother Nature is amazing. In between episodes of hel, hell, hellery, they come to grace our shores and lives.
Spiggie Loch, home of swans…. November seas, home of the orcas.
So much beauty we share and tend to forget as we lock ourselves in this man-made artificial world. This world regulated by clocks and figures of all kinds…. Compartmented in social scales meant to keep us on some frontline. Calendars and even clock change that still belong to another century tainted with wars…
November remembers months of madness, when guns turned life into nightmares, harm and darkness; where eyes opened for a last time, feet inside mud, lice, ice and rats.
That war that never ended all others, as we don’t seem to learn lessons from our own past. Most of our kind regard history to the property of scholars locked in libraries inside books. And even though suffering still tarnish our own lives, we fall for the same one… We invent organisations to temperate bombs and emergency crises. And when leaders spit at freedom, we say amen and stay quiet behind small screens.
November the great month of changes and miracles…
Today, we cry our relief to the world, celebrate light and a new world that reconciled with wisdom instead of darkness, as the world’s first democracy dared to elect a tandem that may relieve a whole planet…
A first woman in the land of the forefathers. A new milestone seeding new possibilities.
Light over the Atlantic
I can only pray wisdom prevails over dollars; pray to walk the shore and marvel at life in all its forms, as I depend on it all to survive. Every daybreak feels a miracle in itself – every sundown, the path to reconvene with stars… Trillions of eyes from a creator of light and life. How can a species wreck it all?
Tis time to repair whilst we can.
I wish to enjoy the garden, breakfast with starlings at sunrise, and feel at one with the island, sky and ocean.
Garden Raiders
Starlings are like vikings - when they descend on trees, they will raid without shame treasure troves to the last! Starlings are gregarious - They're no robin or wren... glitter, shiny armoured, billed to loot the suet - they argue without end on branches or dead leaves, pitiless in their squads... If they could hold an axe, they would kill merciless, to the final fat crumb... They've got the floor, forage through the gold of rose leaves, leave so little to the sparrows; they might tolerate a blackbird, they're dressed to hammer with their bills, squabble and survive November, the savage price named survival.
When night returns on my latitude, and conditions are right, we see it all… Stars, constellations, our Milky Way, meteors and auroras. It is magic.
On Friday night, and to my great surprise, it did just this… Against the odds of forecasters, the veil vanished and let me contemplate such marvellous spectacle. Here comes a prose poem to celebrate it .
Stars
Tonight, I captured Arcturus. Its light pulsed heart, so unmatched glow flicked and flickered in my parallel universe... W by NW, there, inside mid-August twilight, as Elvis echoed deep in stars, I felt the weight of the great Plough lost in a sea of sentinels. Tonight, I harnessed Aquila.
Where Perseids crash in oblivion, I looked for his wings in North night and imagined a hooded friend with two ravens, cloaked and solemn, eyes down on us.
Tonight, I saw the Milky Way, forbidden patches among stars…
So elusive in August skies, the whole of my world in your hands. Light refracted to reach us out and remind us our loneliness belongs to black; that area called underworld, Hades or Hel.
The Creator gave us Lyra, Betelgeuse and Altair in an effort to help our way – never lose sight of the greatness our universe colours with grace; redraw known shapes with my index like a Kepler or a dreamer.
Tonight, I wished for that white star that bears my name to protect us from knives and blades, shackles or chains – reunite us with divine light, and let us shine among stardust.
In this world silenced by a terrorist disease, skylarks still sing above an early April hissing gale.
In this part of the main island, where Sandness looks lost inside haze, tussock grass yields, yet those birds we call laverick have returned as lairds o’da braes – elevated above da tun an da scattald (human dwellings and open fields where grazing’s shared among crofters…).
Deserted world except for birds…
They will defy the harshest gust, ignore that brutal tongue from gales to sing to blueness and the sun.
To each passing of cirrus clouds, they do not know the world’s locked down, as they ascend among ravens, oblivious to material us.
They have returned in their hundreds to the daresay of each hillside.
On this Monday lost in April, this sky has turned cacophonous, as hillsides home song of skylarks, that dare to ignore gusts from gales…
If I went wild on Saturday with my gang of kindred spirits right on the edge of the island, admiring with awe the raw beauty of returning Red-Throated Divers reinstated on their summer lochs & lochans, those everlasting mesmerising cliffs battered by time, salt & ocean, and listened to skylarks at the narrowest isthmus- yes, the world famous Mavis Grind – where the strongest of us might be able to throw a stone in both the North Sea & Atlantic, Sunday was tossed like a pancake, with Force 12 winds battering us as if we were still in winter…
To sum it up, here comes a short piece from my pen.
nordicblackbird 