Photo by David Brooks on Unsplash
Hounded from the burghs at killing time the Covenanters hid their faith up here, where nobody but God could see it. Forsaking mercat cross and kirk a masked man cried on the assembled people – a black ripple spilling out over the hilltop. Afterwards folk would boast of having gathered among these whin-tasselled rocks and listened to that voice haranguing the weather. Knowing nothing of the certainty they shared my boast is only to have stood here alone – a conventicle of one for the wind to preach to.
Pink petals shading into white amidst green foliage and dark bourachs of branches, where the late spring light loses itself in mirk. All winter long, the wizened tree was working secretly at this new youthfulness: so poetry forms sometimes, out of silences. As frost hardened, the hawthorn turned an ur-image of blossom over in its sap: an image earned through cold months, cradled like a lover. So one night language might begin to flower slowly in the mind – nothing that can be written down as yet, not even speechless sound. Only a feeling: if you waited patiently, the words would grow – just so, the tree anticipated wealth, stripped naked in the snow.