Thoughts of Benside.

Late May 2021, Isle of Lewis, Scotland.

Drinking in the smell of Fennel at the front door. Fluffy heads in the evening sun, a handful gathered for some feasting dish. Those early shoots heady with a scent that means home and cooking and gatherings. A nose full of fennel and the May cuckoo across the valley. Drink it all in and save it.

Look down the rumbling croft to where the river lies hidden. There are King cups out on the wee river island and pools even after a dry spell. The trees you helped to plant as a boy and the stile over the wire you built as a man.

Remembered sheep paths can be followed along the riverbank. Rough grass on bare skin. Bog cotton and tormentil. Pretty purple orchids. Peaty red pools of uncertain depths.

Skylarks sing a song of summer.

Now I'm hidden from the houses on the road, I know a pool deep enough to wallow. Submerged to the neck in cool peat water, between the heather topped hag’s reflection and the bed rock. Still water broken by a heavy sigh, ripples out and flows away.