océanne

oceanic


They call you wild sand. Something told me too many footprints come and gone, erased by tides, so many rounds of lunar lightyears... 

I made a promise to my heart. Too long I waited to be re-united with your magic. So I walked through your marram grass and found sleeping dragon right at the edge. The light was delicious at lunchtime. I began to listen to you. I love your rocks and boulders clad with seaweed and limpets. There is something about you that reverberates on wet sand. I remember you clad in ice last winter. Now we're back in November I feel summer. No skelping wind against my face, warmth by your side. Indian summer pushed to the edge.

The edge. That very line drawn by your surf, the earthly seam of a curtain we dare not cross for fear to drown in the unknown. Not long ago, men feared to reach edge of the world - the uncharted,  twisting, white-out, reckless void... Too many boats never returned inside their minds. To stand by the edge is to defy our very fears in the face of the horizon. 

Change of Light

As I wander towards the  centre of the sand-bridge, low clouds change everything. 

Our bountiful November sun begins to play that very game of hide-and-seek. Silhouettes, rounded in gold background, seem to shiver a little more. I will not turn, so determined to feel at one with Arcania. Breakers sound so earthly metronome. Every pebble turns an island, every limpet shell, a mountain. 

I can feel angels around you.

Closer to the shore,

I see you.

As I walk back towards the mainland,  I feel the claws of the darklands.  Low clouds engulf your every hill, like a hungry gigantic mouth. My world darkens further as I drive north.  Too soon we shall revert to dusk and today's sunset's deleted...

I still hear you inside my heart. 

Each wave, each return of the tide...

yesterday I whistled to two selkies south of your bridge, today I walked along your edge, double bladed, synchronised song. Mist may swallow the last hours of my Sunday, my prints will remain on your sand.

once upon a time on the edge of the world

cartographer imaginaire


Today I drew you in the sand.
For days on end, rain filled gulleys, drones, reservoirs, lochs and lochans - waterlogged layers of peatlands, that act like thick blotting paper. For nights on end, I dreamt of each rock in the sand - bouquets of kelp washed on the shore, your every contour, round and round... For the first time in a fortnight, a starry night on Wednesday night! An orange sunrise on Friday overrode grey and dark jade sea.


I nearly lost sight of the island in Panavision.

And when I try to pin blueness, I need to return to the edge; listen to rollers on both sides, as I wander in morning sun. Light, light blessed again my dear sand bridge and let me reach to Arcania. 


My travelogue in island blue begins again.


The incessant song of the sea; rollers behave like bulldozers in surround sound! Spray sticks to everything that stands at surf level. Two hooded crows squabble for kelp; shalders (oystercatchers) shriek back in nearby fields, craigs (rocks in the foreground) and splashzone. Every rock shines and weighs its gold. I feel Tom Thumb returning home... Nothing else matters.

Here lies our wealth, light years away from the void created by the artificial world. I recall Kenneth White sketching a  a destination-less journey, in which the term adventure takes all its dimension. Such simple act of wandering without a goal rekindles our spirit of communion with the world. Moments of sheer joy, as our senses awake to the magic of the island, filled eyes and heart. We are at one with the cosmos.

Soon, we shall cross the equinox, welcome equality in night and day... And before long, re-dress ourselves in this mighty boreal blue.

Haiku triptych de saison

world sketcher -

ragged contours in thick black lines

sometimes distracted by a gale.

Fleur d'oranger -

February drowned inside rain,

indigo month swept by a gale. Here comes the sun.

World poetics -

no matter who lit the first match, as shores expand,

it all sparked off somebody's mind.

© Nat Hall 2011

the oared folk

One year ago or thereabout,

I was standing on my sandbridge at St Ninian and watched folk row in the distance.

I had the whole beach to my feet  and came back home with bits and bolts from evening walk and made the most of this day-dream by engraving those words in ink after freeing them from the kelp...

One moment capsule in one grain where one tide rocks symetrical.

Today i dream  of craft builders who would understand the Atlantic, the deep meaning of humli- baand.............

So there it is without further introduction.

The Oared Folk

They’re rowing,
curved silhouettes towards fringe of one horizon

they’re rowing,
out to ocean they dream to tame

they’re rowing,
oar against kabe, same humli-baand

they’re rowing,
palms against wood create friction

they’re rowing,
clockwork bodies, mechanical

away from all familiar craigs,
elliptic bays,
light selkies songs –

temptation fae da waterhorse

they’re rowing
and I watch you barefoot in sand.


Poet’s notes:
Kabe: wooden pice holding the oar in place; humli-band: a piece of rope keeping oar to the kabe.

© Nat Hall 2009

And oh, this piece was well received at last year's Creative Connections.

morning walk

just like a sign...

My morning wish to tidy up within my walls went through the roof as light increased... I heard the North Atlantic calling.

So I looked up through the window and drove to my favourite sands.

There is no place like it on Earth.

 First, it appeared like a guizer...
I decided on a more feline, stealth approach - so I walk sideways like a crab. And then I watched this morning fog slithering like the most elusive of serpents. I never dared to look behind, I just kneeled on the warming sand.

As light returned, colours deepened. Jade from shallows to summer blue polarised my senses and heart.
When you come down to the shoormal, you need to respect every step and make contact with Atlantic.
So I took off my sheepskin boots and folded the edge of my breeks.

...Welcome to morning Arcania :)

 ...It is not cold, it does not sting! I felt at one with the whole world.
So if you too live by the shore, take a morning to feel its pulse and it will help you remember who and where you truly are :).

pushing out the boat

we, the children of fishermen

Miles away from the word festival at Aberdeen University, I pushed the boat in Shetland blue. 
North East Scotland's  anthology of new writing, foreworded by Shetland poetess Christine De Luca, was launched today in the granite city. Thank you to the editorial team for including Stormday.
Pushing Out The Boat

Today,  anything but a stormday.

In the grandeur of 60N,  I hopped on islands like a child and let the light fill my heart. This Sunday was tainted in hues that are synonym with summer... So I watched my world through the lens. And when I seek either solace or redemption, I always end up at Ninian.

I love this sandbridge in late afternoon. I'm usually alone with birds and diamond sea...  Summer has reached north atlantic, as three surfers ventured inside turquoise waters before tea time.

There at low tide, sand was littered with sugar kelp. So I went closer to the rocks and felt the power of our world - the mechanics of the cosmos, as water filled sandy channels, every cubic inch of rockpool...

And followed tracks across the sand, the many grains of wilderness.

One final thought on that new day, 
(Monday) 17 May.

For the very first time in 26 years, I will look at it without fear and will celebrate in Lerwick Norway's Constitution Day with my buddies from either side of the northworld :)
Norwegian Constitution Day

my favourite edge of the world: St Ninian Sands, 17 Jan 2010