Followers

PER MARE PER TERRAM

Chant du monde boréal
Shoormal.
Sandshifter, 60N.
Where it all makes sense.

CHRONICLES FROM ARCANIA

Preamble

Through Chronicles from Arcania, I shall attempt to share walks with you, this poetics from 60N, where I feel at one with our Earth, my sense of place so maritime.


Wednesday, 28 April 2010

April, this Snow fool...

 No air sock, no wind vane...

Just on course.

Lissa's four sleeps away from leaping over the planet once more - from southern to northern garden...
Soon she reunites with Trinity, Edinburgh. Familiar façades and pavements. By some twist of fate, David remixed Bravery this morning - giving the track new wings thanks  to some technological add-on... Don't ask me which, I dunna ken! I'm the Poet, not the arranger/techno-wizard!

And there, somewhere from the ether,
My favourite living Scottish poet, Mr Edwin Morgan, celebrated his 90th birthday today. He, fountain of inspiration and traveller from out of space! I love the way he takes the reader for some ride... That visionary rendez-vous.
Happy Birthday/Joyeux anniversaire, Mr Morgan :)

Serendipity.
I cast runes every time i find myself in the present. Keeps heart on track. 
From life's least enigmatic trivialities to the very source of the cosmos, my favourite one remains Gebo, the gift. from the runemaker

Now April is waning away, I shall ask for warmth and mercy. Windows of light reach for our earth and create mist around our homes. Whilst that volcanic plume left us alone for a moment, we feel at last the tenderness of nordic sun. So I shall keep my fingers crossed and remember to bow to the magic of the island, my chosen archipelago.
And ask of you to let Lissa land to the realm of Arthur's Seat.
I'll wave at you from each classroom until you tell me you've arrived.

 
Unfinished Definition of… The Wind

So elusive and yet so bold.

Mode of transport to the dreamer,
            seasonal sigh or kiss of death –
it never fails to deliver messages to those who listen.
It tears off storms off TV masts,
            forces clean rain to come undone;
with feathered wings on each grass blade,
Aeolus knows it too well –
he Caesar in our northern sky,
who brings his legions to hilltops.
Now hear me out:
I spend my dreams flying with you –
sleep on the wing like alpine swifts but never fail to recognise
that I would be lost without you,
out of my dream,  at each sunrise.

© Nat Hall 2010


 ...Who said the garden fell asleep?

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