Low Tide on White Strand Fuday Barra

Low Tide on the White Strand

Twice daily
on that desert isle
the mighty prow,
the dragon’s head,
festooned with sea wrack,
rises,
revealing,
exposed,
by ebbing tide,
a sinuous vision
of massive wooden ribs,
comfortably bedded,
diagonally rested,
in gentle curves
across the long white strand.
Onward it voyages,
this solid vessel,
of heavy blackened wood
four inches thick
grafted to ribs
with one inch doméd dowels,
this hallowed hull
where time,
is stilled.

Collapsing cliffs of sand enclose the beach and from their edge hangs matted yellowed grass, curly hair waving in the wind, hiding so many shrunken, blackened skulls, watching. Watching the caressing tide return to kiss each rib in little lapping waves, till only the prow remains and like a seal’s bobbing head is gone, submerged again in silence, sea and sand beneath a headland where wind and currents rule a dark green sea. 

I paddled to the island and stayed the night, returning a week later to take the photos, though this time the tide wasn’t low enough to expose all the ship. I would like to find out more information on this shipwreck but here are a few references with pictures of Viking ships:




http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/scotland.shtml
http://www.mariner.org/exploration/index.php?type=shiptype&id=20



If you liked my poem then you will like this one by Robert Stephen Hawker. As with the wreck I’ve just discovered it.

The Figure-Head of the Caledonia at her Captain's Grave.

We laid them in their lowly rest,
The strangers of a distant shore;
We smoothed the green turf on their breast,
'Mid baffled Ocean's angry roar;
And there, the relique of the storm,
We fixed fair Scotland's figured form.

She watches by her bold, her brave,
Her shield towards the fatal sea:
Their cherished lady of the wave
Is guardian of their memory.
Stern is her look, but calm, for there
No gale can rend or billow bear.

Stand, silent image! stately stand,
Where sighs shall breathe and tears be shed,
And many a heart of Cornish land,
Will soften for the stranger dead.
They came in paths of storm; they found
This quiet home in Christian ground.

Robert Stephen Hawker
"Parson Hawker,” as he was known to his parishioners, was something of an eccentric, both in his clothes and his habits. He loved bright colours and it seems the only black things he wore were his socks. He built a small hut (that became known as Hawker's Hut) from driftwood on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, where he spent many hours writing his poems and smoking opium. This driftwood hut is now the smallest property in the National Trust portfolio. Other eccentricities included dressing up as a mermaid and excommunicating his cat for mousing on Sundays. He dressed in claret-coloured coat, blue fisherman's jersey, long sea-boots, a pink brimless hat and a poncho made from a yellow horse blanket, which he claimed was the ancient habit of St Pardarn. He talked to birds, invited his nine cats into church and kept a huge pig as a pet.
The Harvest Festival that we know today was introduced in the small village of Morwenstow in 1843 by Hawker. He invited his parishioners to a Harvest service. He wanted to give thanks to God for providing such plenty in a more fitting way. This service took place on the 1st of October and bread made from the first cut of corn was taken at communion.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker

Poem: Dutch 16th/17th Century Shipwreck on a Scottish Island (please comment)

Twice daily
on that desert isle
the mighty prow,
the dragon’s head,
festooned with sea wrack,
rises,
revealing,
exposed,
by ebbing tide,
a sinuous vision
of massive wooden ribs,
comfortably bedded,
diagonally rested,
in gentle curves
across the long white strand.

It voyages on,
a solid vessel,
of heavy, blackened planks
four inches thick,
grafted to ribs
by one inch doméd dowels,
a hallowed hull
in a timeless sea.

Collapsing cliffs of sand enclose the beach and from their edge hangs matted yellowed grass, coconut hair waving in the wind, hiding so many shrunken, blackened skulls, watching. Watching the caressing tide return to kiss each rib in little lapping waves, till only the prow remains and like a seal’s bobbing head is gone, submerged again in silence, sea and sand beneath a headland where wind and currents rule the dark green sea.

I paddled to the island and stayed the night, returning a week later to take the photos, though this time the tide wasn’t low enough to expose all the ship. I would like to find out more information on this shipwreck but here are a few references with pictures of Viking ships:




http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/scotland.shtml
http://www.mariner.org/exploration/index.php?type=shiptype&id=20



If you liked my poem then you will like this one by Robert Stephen Hawker. As with the wreck I’ve just discovered it.

The Figure-Head of the Caledonia at her Captain's Grave.

We laid them in their lowly rest,
The strangers of a distant shore;
We smoothed the green turf on their breast,
'Mid baffled Ocean's angry roar;
And there, the relique of the storm,
We fixed fair Scotland's figured form.

She watches by her bold, her brave,
Her shield towards the fatal sea:
Their cherished lady of the wave
Is guardian of their memory.
Stern is her look, but calm, for there
No gale can rend or billow bear.

Stand, silent image! stately stand,
Where sighs shall breathe and tears be shed,
And many a heart of Cornish land,
Will soften for the stranger dead.
They came in paths of storm; they found
This quiet home in Christian ground.

Robert Stephen Hawker

"Parson Hawker,” as he was known to his parishioners, was something of an eccentric, both in his clothes and his habits. He loved bright colours and it seems the only black things he wore were his socks. He built a small hut (that became known as Hawker's Hut) from driftwood on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, where he spent many hours writing his poems and smoking opium. This driftwood hut is now the smallest property in the National Trust portfolio. Other eccentricities included dressing up as a mermaid and excommunicating his cat for mousing on Sundays. He dressed in claret-coloured coat, blue fisherman's jersey, long sea-boots, a pink brimless hat and a poncho made from a yellow horse blanket, which he claimed was the ancient habit of St Pardarn. He talked to birds, invited his nine cats into church and kept a huge pig as a pet.
The Harvest Festival that we know today was introduced in the small village of Morwenstow in 1843 by Hawker. He invited his parishioners to a Harvest service. He wanted to give thanks to God for providing such plenty in a more fitting way. This service took place on the 1st of October and bread made from the first cut of corn was taken at communion.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker

Aphids suck the Sycamore

The weather has been unusualy hot and sunny for about six weeks and I’ve been busy in the garden, most recently watering the vegetables every day but yesterday I sat and relaxed among the trees…… hearing the occasional gentle rustle of the breeze in the birches and the ‘shush’ from the pine, sounds and memories of happy days.

I am beneath two tall birches, tiny leaves on delicate wands waving in the blue sky casting flickering shadows on my note book. One has two trunks like the DNA double spiral. Through the darkness of a pine I see a bloom, purple, deep and silent on a Rhododendron. The air too is deep scented with bluebell, lavender and pine. Aphids suck the sycamore. Two Polish lads finish mending the road and drive away and there is birdsong and the occasional gentle rustle of the breeze in the birches and the ‘shush’ from the pine. I could easy breathe more of Endymion’s narcotic scent to sleep again in Grecian moonlit hills, where fragrant pines say, ‘shush’.

We go away and the world becomes itself. In meditation or wild places sometimes we are surprised finding each other being ourselves. Goldfinch are beside me. Time to go..... but how long would it take to reach enlightenment; the life of a tree or the days of the restless flies. Voracious caterpillars seem too busy eating and yet they are transformed. A hover fly makes an urgent buzz. Two bubble bees hum purposefully. A wasp, quiet as a tiger, flies low through the tall buttercups.

Poem: Fritillaria meleagris

from the dark earth

these native lilies

offer life games

on purple boards

Still Life