Wild Moment: Michael Hughes
'Shards of light turn the sea’s surface emerald, amethyst, aquamarine, cobalt, and violet...' A wintry poem lights up the dark season.
No Such Thing As Bad Weather
Harris Squall
From a Harris headland
sea shimmers to the horizon.
Close-cropped grass for my couch,
clover for my pillow,
salt-tanged zephyr for my cover.
The dark line of an Atlantic squall
races shoreward, North Harris hills
disappear behind sheets of rain.
Through wind torn clouds,
shards of light turn the sea’s surface
emerald, amethyst, aquamarine, cobalt, and violet.
A kaleidoscope of colour above white shell sand.
The squall passes as all things must pass.
Succoth Shelter
Hb Succoth, place of the tent: "And Jacob journeyed to Succoth, and built him an house, and made booths for his cattle: therefore the name of the place Is called Succoth." Genesis 33:17
On the descent,
the weary forest track
to Succoth is lined by
silent Sitka spruce.
Snow is everywhere.
Thick on branches,
blanketing juniper and heather,
filling ditches to the brim.
A forest workers’ bothy
is a welcome stop.
Stretched out on side benches
we watch the myriad
down-falling drowsy flakes,
a curtain of white, grey and black
across the doorway.
Our Succoth shelter
offers the Balm of Gilead.
We drift down with each
slow-falling flake.
New Year Storm
High above the quiet plateau
storm clouds howl across a bruised sky.
Below the summit, wind is storm force,
spindrift finds every vulnerability,
crampons and ice axe are needed now.
Backs to the wind, blind in the blizzard,
frozen fingers fumble with unyielding straps.
We won’t make the top today.
Leaning into the gusting wind on the descent,
Loch Lomond is a pewter palette
in the fading light of early January.
Cocooned in wool and down
We drop quickly into the hill’s
sheltering shoulder and the year ahead.