Where Spirits Dwell

Where Spirits Dwell


The first window of morning frames the yacht moored in the reflection of a copper kettle.
Boiling overnight, now set to shimmer.
Crisp leaves, and I, chase wind and chaffinch over glimmering slates to the sithean hill – where spirits dwell – above the house.


Over sheilings now worked in miniature by softer hands. Under the gaze of the sleepy Luing bulls on the gnuig.
Amongst the land they love, and which loves them; we walk in silence.


Arrow-straight seems the route across to Scarba. Today topped by its cloudy cap with rainbow feather. Beware this hat of many colours.
Below this flinchin promise pass packs of grey dogs nightly as the dark-hour falls.
Be home, before the Corryvreckans cauldron waves beat their warring drums.


But first, take a faerie lantern from the cave below the hill. Follow the rin to the shore till gold mends the broken banks of cloud.
Or until the copper beach runs out to where the selkies play.

Where Spirits Dwell

11th August 2016


About largelyhelen

Designer, photographer, writer.
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