Last year it was Halcyon perhaps

Last year

It was first of all a kingfisher, halcyon fishing bird from my foot. The bird that left the ark second and flew upwards to take the colour of the sky before turning and the sun burning breast feathers, russet.

Last year was painting again in the dark when you came and went, came and went, like the seventh wave.

Painted mountains were giants shouting in the distance as I drove towards them and looked forward to being lonely. Skies were lidless and shiny. Eyes were bright and places were wet.

Cantering on my chestnut missing the tide was everyday last year and I was happy to give up whisky and I finally let the dog dreams of chasing on my favourite chair whilst I planned paintings.

Last year I saw the Isle of the Silver Otter and smelled instinctively the memory brine on the rockward side of the loch. Collected stones were kept in medicine jars along with small thoughts of dominance.

Sunrise was filled with gulls crying and clamouring like children for wistfulness, followed by sandwich short days of nothing much as bladderwrack popped and crabs scuttled clack. And last was sunset brush stroked, feathered and intended.

Last time, last year was heartbeat running through the grove of large pines whilst listening to baroque counter beat. My new running shoes hurt my feet for a while. Just as my old thinking warned and warmed me.

Lonely can be in a crowd and crowded can be all alone with oneself. Several people said this to me.

Progressive rock and fantasy were still favourites and work began selling. Last year the dog otter cracked his food on a rock below my watercolour and I showed him first of all to a new interest .

Gorgeous was painted from you and entered in an eye competition and I sailed around the islands to the sound of you loving. Don't go away, you said and how will I know, you questioned? But you did and so did I, last year.