r2vyln3rdioj14u-rld0ska where mountains meet the sea: this frieze of mountains

this frieze of mountains

Glaciers, grinding West, gouged out
these valleys, rasping the brown sandstone,
and left, on the hard rock below — the
ruffled foreland —
this frieze of mountains, filed
on the blue air — Stac Polly,
Cul Beag, Cul Mor, Suilven,
Canisp — a frieze and
a litany.

Who owns this landscape?
has owning anything to do with love?
For it and I have a love-affair, so nearly human
we even have quarrels. —
When I intrude too confidently
it rebuffs me with a wind like a hand
or puts in my way
a quaking bog or a loch
where no loch should be. Or I turn stonily
away, refusing to notice
the rouged rocks, the mascara
under a dripping ledge, even
the tossed, the stony limbs waiting.

I can't pretend
it gets sick for me in my absence,
though I get
sick for it. Yet I love it
with special gratitude, since
it sends me no letters, is never
jealous and, expecting nothing
from me, gets nothing but
cigarette packets and footprints.

Who owns this landscape? —
The millionaire who bought it or
the poacher staggering downhill in the early morning
with a deer on his back?

Who possesses this landscape? —
The man who bought it or
I who am possessed by it?

False questions, for
this landscape is
and intractable in any terms
that are human.
It is docile only to the weather
and its indefatigable lieutenants —
wind, water and frost.
The wind whets the high ridges
and stunts silver birches and alders.
Rain falling down meets
springs gushing up —
they gather and carry down to the Minch
tons of sour soil, making bald
the bony scalp of Cul Mor. And frost
thrusts his hand in cracks and, clenching his fist,
bursts open the sandstone plates,
the armour of Suilven:
he bleeds stones down chutes and screes,
smelling of gunpowder.

Or has it come to this,
that this dying landscape belongs
to the dead, the crofters and fighters
and fishermen whose larochs
sink into the bracken
by Loch Assynt and Loch Crocach? —
to men trampled under the hoofs of sheep
and driven by deer to
the ends of the earth — to men whose loyalty
was so great it accepted their own betrayal
by their own chiefs and whose descendants now
are kept in their place
by English businessmen and the indifference
of a remote and ignorant government....

Norman MacCaig, extract from A Man in Assynt


Ekanthapadhikan said...

You seem to create magic with your camera, friend. This one is a very poignant shot. I loved the blue hue.

Neil Tasker said...

My first visit to your blog and I love it. You're going straight onto my bloglist.

Gardendiggers said...

Absolutely blog worth to follow. Great captures and poetry!

cornel said...

beautiful work
beautiful blog
I love your pictures !

ER said...

Ekan, thank you. I remember the day i shot this. Very little cloud, as you can see. How rare! The barren landscape against a bright blue sky and and its relection in the loch, i was struck by the incongruity of it all. The poem speaks to this...and so much more.

Neil, thank you and welcome! :) Thank you for the link. I just visited your blog. It's wonderful! Your photos are lovely. Looking at them, one would think it never rains here in Scotland. ;) You write well and from the heart. I look forward to more. :)

Welcome Gardendiggers and thanks for visiting. I looked in at your blog, too. Lovely photographs! Windows to the soul ;)

Cornel, welcome! Thanks for visiting. You have very interesting photoblogs. And excellent links to other photographers. :)