suburban relationship

covered in birch seeds 

a patch of nettles

_-_-_

electric storm

her hands 

full of ants

_-_-_

cooking blood on weathered cement his mother’s flag

  being silhouettes we sow strawberries in november

black woodpecker

at dusk you see a woodpecker

and everything is fine

 

blue tits the rattle of dead trees

 

asking the woodpecker

about the fish’s sneeze

 

ghost hare

across the path

her jewelry

 

shit or worse. a woodpecker

 

none of the kids 

wearing earrings

if your dream comes true you die 

and then a woodpecker

 

when life gives you lemons go climb a hill fort

The morning is overcast grey and cool. I am planning the day’s walk. Deciding is sometimes difficult but itʼs always fun pouring over old maps and websties. Weʼll see. Breakfast on. Thatʼll help me decide. Pasta and eggs for some good fuel. Full tank for whatever comes under foot. Now tea - part of any good day. Yes, tea. Yes, yes, tea.

Mount Florida station. A wasp, its yellow and black abdomen, looks good along the blue of the ticket office paint scheme - happy accident. Languid from the cold it grips on hoping for an Indian summer or maybe even death. I donʼt know. In the ticket booth the man chained to the desk is knotted to his phone out of tiredness or something worse. I buy my ticket with little to no conversation. Grunt. Grunt. Aye.

Some gorges are made from shifting ice caps - long gone floods and gigantic rivers. Some are man made like train lines and routes. They both have similar topographic and geographic similarities the difference lies in the train tracks and the plants on the embankments. I wait in this gorge looking headlong and forlorn for the next ice age. Well at least a Mammoth.

On the train the announcements are blurred by an overenthusiastic driver and a past its best speaker. It sounds like the last cry of an Irish elk caught in some ditch in West Meath. The young people wear shirts that match their hair colour which are equal parts stupid and cool. Healthy soft and over fed. They whisper - which is always better than shouting like the train driver. One of them has a tote bag that reads ʻfighting animal testingʼ. I wonder if the driver of the train had almond milk with his porridge this morning? Two sixty. Ta, now.

Muirend, Williamwood, Whitecraigs, Patterton, Nielston. The landscape half digested by golf courses and the ill chosen architecture of housing developments. I hope all you fuckers get indigestion. Beautiful and violent in its ideology. A sentiment suited to innuendos in the shape and hue of brown envelopes. Genital and genitive indifference. Viaducts. Aqueducts. Rail bridges. Water for the towns - man made reservoirs. Bringing beasts, water and people to and from the city. So it is. The train picks up speed between Patterton and the last stop Nielston. 

Off the train. My feet sure. Sure that itʼs concrete. Clear cool air - you could spread it on toast. Cut grass. Cow shit. Soft morning. The sound of Saturday morning being played just out of view. Pass the fucking ball and all that. Time. Time. Luck up. Look up. Man on. You fucking...... Poems of the turf. Leave the station. Left down Kirkton Road. Good name. Good job town planners. Pass the Neilston Bowling club which is one part Bolshevik ode and another part Northern English working manʼs club. 

Further on a field on the other side of the road houses the stone from which Nielston derives its name - according to a leaflet from East Renfrewshire Council. The stone was erected in commemoration for an officer that died close by. Jackdaws and rooks overhead. Grass wet with dew and ghosts. I push on up through and into the Levern Valley. And on. Hedgerows. Hawthorns - red and green. Landscape becomes weird and old very quickly. Farms sitting on top of farms that sit on top of farms and so. Probably the bases of the earliest farmers in this part of the world. Hill forts, old stuff juts from hills and fields mixing with the pylons and the skeletons of modern farming - agricultural equipment and mowed fields. someone fires a gun behind one of the hills. In the corner of my eye I notice something fall from the sky. The gun repeatedly sounds until I get out of hearing distance.

The country road curves and rises through beech portals - old, real old, some dead standing covered in porcelain fungus busy winning the war. Soft drizzle. Wind picks up. Leave the country road at the Springfield Road junction into a field. So long concrete and tarmac. Cross the field. The grass long and wet. Real wet. My boots remind me they are three years old and have been round the clock at least once. The field narrows towards a gate between two patches of woods. From here Duncarnock fort above Glanderston is visible. A couple of swans take off so loudly they drown out the sound of lowing cows from the nearby farms.

Follow the dam around. The banks covered with yarrow, knapweed, thistles and private fishing signs. Ladybirds exclusively feeding and resting on the yarrow which is being fed on by aphids. A hedgerow of very old gnarly weather worn hawthorn leads me to the foot of the fort. 

When life gives you lemons climb something - hill forts are good. Duncarnock fort is situated on quite a tall natural out crop so its going to get the blood and lungs working. Ghosts as rocks jut here and there all the way up. I rush up not wanting to stall the steep ascent. And breath. A trig point, beautiful modern monolith in its own rite, sits like a little crown and that seems as good of a point as any to rest and take notes and some photographs. For a moment the clouds start to shift I look up quickly and get a blast of vertigo I touch the ground and close my eyes and all is well again. 

The thought of coming back down in sunshine is a short lived fantasy. Circle round the remains of the fort. A clear lip around it gives one the sense of the walls. The middle is like a crater of sorts taking over by a micro bog like area - rushes, bilberry, sour grass and the usual acidic loving plants. A soft stillness up here. The sounds of the not so distant M77 a soft bee drone, pylon hum, trickling water, wind through tall grass and the sound of birds protecting their nests.

On the way back down the rain god remembers his job. At times like this I become aware of my glasses. Heavy drizzle. Head right at the dam this time coming back to Neilston in a loop. In a field facing the reservoir a young bullock is staring me down. He has only one eye and the markings on his face are in the shape of South America. Iʼve a feeling weʼll meet again if he doesnʼt become a hamburger. Hedgerows subtle along this stretch with splashes of purples in harebells, scabious and the darker tones of blackberries. Paused by ditches full of tall willow herb going to seed. The flame passes to the next candle. The walls around the farms, fields and roads is built with the salvaged stone from the fort. Common practice in rural areas everywhere I have been and the leading reason why hill forts, castles and similar buildings are in the state that they are in.

Along Johnny Blueʼs well Road. A moment to look at the well that is full of sunflower offerings. Story goes that Johnny was a local print worker. On his way home he would wash the blue ink off himself at this well. Speaking of blues the fields facing the well have been cut in the last few days and the swallows, that were late arriving this year, are also late leaving and are getting a good feed before the impending cross continent journey. I join them for a moment in their feast - they scarfing insects, me stuffing handfuls of perfectly ripe blackberries in my pie hole. A fellow walker passes by we comment on the weather -what else can we talk about? It doesnʼt know what itʼs doing, I unwillingly agree. Of course the weather knows what itʼs doing. But I didnʼt want to dry snitch the weather god - snitches get stitches and all that. Not far from the town now so I put my hood back up and plough on.

Quick fuel up in the co-op. Nielston has a wonderful main street full of old buildings too wet to fully appreciate today. Make my way to the train station. The train waiting for me - it leaves in five minutes. Perfect. I take my seat and adjust my gear. A man is whistling - I hope he stops or gets off at the next stop before I set the weather gang on him. The train leaves. His whistling is now out of time too. He stops as more people get on at Patterton - he doesnʼt like a big crowd. The old ladyʼs perfume takes the seat next to me. And home.

torn mail sail

Start out from Townsend Castle ruins. The night interrupted by lighting. I follow the Brooklee Towards the coast. Butterflies colour the journey. I regret not bringing the butterfly book I picked up in the charity shop last year. 

By midday I make it to One Tree Pass. I rest in the treeʼs shade. I eat the sandwiches I made last night. I drink the flask of tea I made this morning. Before continuing on I sharpen and clean my axe.

Just before nightfall I make it to the beach. I set up camp for the night in the dunes. I fall asleep to the waves' lull. My last sight is a shooting star. I dream of thunderbirds. I must make an offering to the gods soon.

Morning comes along - as it does. Dawnʼs rosy fingers and all that. It is pleasant to wake up beside the sea. Big bodies of water. Slow or fast river. Itʼs hard to be prejudiced towards water of any denomination. I look around. It would be great to sail on that big ocean someday. 

I enjoy writing in the morning. I take it all in. A human sized ball of red wool appears above my head. It spins out into the ocean. The air to touch. The air to touch. Soft - or nothing.

Getting ready to head out I notice a large upright beast has left footprints near the camp. I look around but whatever left the marks has long gone. I feel a sense of fear and relief.

Heading back over One Tree Pass I notice thunder clouds forming. I walk as fast as I can skirting Percy Woods but the weather breaks before I can take shelter. The pylons, quite close buy are hit by a massive bolt of lighting. It rattles them and my bones. I think of being made of steel like the pylons - it feels weird and good to think this way. Before I can gather my senses the weather changes again and the skies clear. I feel a great sense of relief.

I head south a little further and decide to stay at the stone circle south of Percy Woods. I light a fire and make an offering to the thunder gods. I burn mugwort and recite a prayer my father gave me. Will they hear me? As the night sets in I notice another shooting star. This surely is a sign? I light a pipe and think about the day.

lassila

for nowt
the moon and a sandwich
in the backpack

late summer flowers
a crack appears
in the pencil

stopping to pick hops
your hands become the ipa
from three summers ago

a fisherman waiting for the train

dying moths
covering the linoleum
pencil shavings

your passport photo fading snapdragons

a flock of geese pass over lassila allotments for a moment all the gardeners stop and look then silently they agree to work a little longer and harder this evening

monkeys ain't shit birds 4ever

I keep having this dream where my glasses break and I put them back together. And the mood of this whole dream is that time is moving very slowly independent of my tasks and it all loops over and over. Ok. When I wake someone has always left a note beside the bed and it reads -  monkeys ain't shit birds 4ever.