The sedge warbler had his laugh, introducing the day with the sounds of an electronic amusement arcade. The drilling, trilling, clicking of the vox apparatus. Flies approach the midge-screen, some retreat, some rest. Even the bluebells, with the help of the wind, limber up for the day. But so still in Sweeney’s.
And with binoculars you can breathe it all into two small lenses: a whole landscape that feet might tread for days trying to assimilate.
On one of those days, walking the prehistoric coastline, a magisterial head in stone camouflage.
Surrounding it, cipher scored and scratched. Not legible, but alive with intent.
Along the same coastline horses rumps and distended stomachs fused together through thousands of years huddling up in Western Isle winters.
A woman curled up asleep on the sand’s lap.
What can I take from this?
Hidden behind a hillock on the North West corner (the place I’ve come to think of as Eigg’s back alley), a whale skeleton.
The skin is rotting and the stench sits heavily above despite the wind. Armature starts to look more like armour and I’m wondering if two loose ribs might find an additional role within a sculpture someday. They twist as they arc towards their majestic length and looked poised to pierce a bag or two of clay.