All part of the story

By Treshnish

Near the manger

Firstly thank you all SO SO much for the lovely response to my 3000 blips. I am deeply overwhelmed by all the gifts and warm comments, and thank you all for each and every one. I had completely forgotten that yesterday was my 3000th despite the blipcentral reminder a few days ago. I don’t know that I would have chosen a different photograph but I would certainly have written something to express how deeply I value being part of the Blipfoto community and how grateful I am to those who keep it going on our behalf and how much I enjoy my relationships with you all. Thank you, thank you.

We are going away on holiday tomorrow, planned months ago. So today was a day of tying up loose ends, getting a last minute prescription from Tobermory and finishing off things indoors. Not quite finished yet!

We’d arranged with Martin and Beady to get together at 6 in the farm building where we could sit safely ‘out of doors’ but under cover! It was dark and damp, the strong beams from the outside lights illuminating the angular paths of wind rushed raindrops as we arrived. Inside, scent, smell and rustle of 180 sheep quietly pulling hay from the hayricks and chewing the cud in the unseen shadows behind the tractor and through the pens. We sit in the light, there is something almost biblical about sheltering from the weather along with the animals. We drank from bottles of kombucha, ate tamari roasted almonds and expensive creamy green olives from Sicily via Waitrose. And drank in the enjoyment of each other’s company.

Beady is a writer. Her first book was published by Sandstone Press just as the UK went into lockdown. It’s called Marram. (By Leonie Charlton) Beautifully written and crafted.

She wrote this poem yesterday which she kindly let me add to my blip.

Carolyne’s Two Hawthorns, Late October

They rub along in silvering last light above above Loch na Keal, mutter
warmly with each due-east minding of wind, embody the wefted shape
of the other with ample room for sway and fluctuate, for moving just-so
within easy-always reach, the detail of their close nakednesses visible
in the smooth patches of no lichen, rubbings of intimacy amongst their
many-eyed, unravelling selves, as they cant away from the island of Ulva
the old-blood colour of their fruit deepens the sky towards Inch Kenneth,
just some few berries hanging on now, withstanding in this honed place
as winter wraps, as trunks hunker and ask little of roots that reach under
to where Martin sits in the car, knees touching for warmth, watching me
standing out there, the space between my legs mirroring a moving-gap
between the hawthorns, how lacunae meet in the middle of us. Beyond
bare knees and branches a hidden sun sends rays true, straight as a die
through horizons of yesterdays and tomorrows, clouds of now and light.

Back to the packing now.

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