I rouse to the sound of staccato rain:
a crescendo of clarity against un-curtained panes
that window the wilds from my hut in the hills
where a vision is nurtured and the hush is distilled.
Upon a dancing of sea, a fine fret is spun
from the spindrift of salt Anaile* purposefully flung
to dissolve desolation and erase the remote,
where solitude hides and the hush lingers like smoke.
Gneiss scatters the landscape like a disgorge of thoughts;
a dot to dot trail that can’t be ignored
as the fugitive light ignites each rock in turn
then flees this stark landscape, streaking into the burn.
Dried cairns of peat help compass my path
as this call from the wilds speaks straight to my heart
and it’s here that I find the amplified hush,
a peppermint sea and my escape from the rush…
(NB *Anaile is a Gaelic word for wind. Anail nan speur meaning ‘breath of the skies’)
This poem was inspired by the unforgettable time I spent in a place called Hushinish (Gaelic: Huisinis) on the Isle of Harris.