Sunday, 3 May 2020

Rannoch Moor and Shed Bodegon

Roaming on Rannoch Moor
by Pat Sutherand

Seasonal chameleon, backdrop for epic history, epitome of bleak. The world saw the moor in Skyfall, but seeing is a poor substitute for standing there, breathing bog myrtle air, transfixed among the cries of its marsh-loving birds.

Winter freezes the tiny Lochans and the burns tinkle under ice. Horizon peaks are snow shrouded; mist hangs heavy over the rushes and silence rules the icy vastness.

Spring is a latecomer to Rannoch Moor. Its herald is the curlew making its  nest among tussocks, sending its come-hither song through warming air.  In Summer the moor tumbles through rain and sunshine, the network of waters flashing  mysteries in signals.  Treeless in Autumn, without  gold or scarlet relief, the moor is lonely, sinking into its history.


In the absence of a Rannoch Moor photo I am sharing promised photos of MY shed. Many of the zoom sessions have been taking place in our writers' delightful sheds... Here too is my attempt at a "Bodegon"... a still life.

by Cap'n Bev

Ah my shed.
Hopeful queues of things to do
a mix of screws
and here, a scented pile of sawn dust.
A rusted file, grinding paste,
ancient as this precious fid and darning tool
from which, atop my happy stool,
I long to coax old shine.
Dull, white glow of snow seals up
the sleepy garden window.
Ardent Tits inspect their old box,
but here’s another partly made.

Magic spell of sanity
laid out upon the table
awaits my incantation
to make, fix, sing and do… waits…
till I am well and better able.

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