Ross and Cromarty

Ross and Cromarty

 

while sauntering the Scottish coast

beyond Plockton, past Applecross,

though not as far as Ullapool,

I was overtaken by a

stillness broken by seabird calls

and white horses against the shore

 

snatches of shouting from a man

tall on a green tide-mossy rock

intrigued me - a white-haired ancient

battling the elements with words,

 

I sat, an audience of one.

 

“For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace:

the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you

into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.”

 

I’d had my fill of bible talk

at Baptist Church and Sunday School

but felt compelled to sit a while

 

the scene before me defied words -

a sea salt-sprayed prophet at preach,

darkening clouds dulling the sun,

an arctic tern in the background –

I rooted for my Praktica

 

a sudden pause, an angry shout,

“no cameras, no photographs!”

 

I grabbed a snapshot anyway

 

gripping tight to wind-whipped scriptures

he preached, verbatim, ancient texts

to guillemots, a dolphin pod,

the wind, the sea – and then to me

 

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,

and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you,

and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart:

and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”

 

his words dried up, he stopped, he turned,

 

“would you care to supper with me?

a wee dioch-an-doris perhaps?”

there’s a bottle of single malt

in dire need of  'preciation’”

 

he led me past a dozen hens

and a skulk of watchful cats to

a one-time war-time lookout post

his turf-covered camouflaged home,

ceiling rammed with driftwood sculptures

and fancy pebble jewellery

he traded for whisky and wine

 

I offered to buy – he declined.

 

staring through a window slit at

Rona, Raasay and Skye beyond,

he opened up on days of fame,

Mercedes-Benz, celebrities

 

we sat, in candlelight, with cats,

drinking long into the night as

glass of Talisker followed glass

 

“time to crack another open”

 

“you preach but there’s no one to hear”

 

“no one but you, you stopped, you heard,

I’ve preached to thousands – wasting words

on stony hearts too hard to care”

 

a silent tableau unfolded

next dawn - him at the waterline

blessing a bottle we had killed

with his message rolled tight inside -

 

pushing it into the ocean

and watching it drift on the tide.