Landscape and the Long-Distance Call.
I perch on top of a viewfinder, a trig point facing the sun. An Iron Age fort. A settlement.
Convection and currents mixing the memories with the months and the years. The sun warms and the skylarks sing. Fragmented memories of a time long gone come flooding back. A New Year’s Day ritual with a loved one, lost. An expanding emotion that comes with memory. The long-distance call.
The river slides east, always a constant companion. Rough stone and the promise of Lochnagar to the north. Not today.
Out-of-reach edges, sky spilling onto the hills.
Later, the darkened peach fudge of a Rothko horizon. Water at my feet that I like to think came from the cold, mountain-silvered threads of Ben Lui.
Cononish
Fillan
Dochart
Tay
Later still, the tangerine air, a tempting portal.
Fickle May and farmers’ potluck. Everywhere, gorse and coconut air. The tendrils of winter now severed, almost.
Fused with April and June and adorned with ever-changing light. Mercurial May.
Dark, inky stratocumulus undersides and hope stretching as far as the eye can see.
The long-distance call.