BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Luke Dorman

Earthsong

The shivering greys of early autumn morning slide in rectangles to grow houses and flats, cool windows slipping through the icy air. Rivers of tarmac seeping through the city. The sludge of cement between bricks. The pavement slots together beneath my feet – the adult’s jigsaw; rough grain, coarse and harsh; the soles of my feet unprotected, unhindered, uninhibited.

But Oh!

a blade of grass slicing through the squares. A stroke of emerald on a clean slate, crushed between concrete, suffocated by asphalt, tormented by darkness, bound in chains of roads –agony in the abyss of enclosure, foundations raking at my flesh, the crust of cities drowning me. My forest! The shaved head of a prisoner, captive of my own child.

Jooles Whitehead Seascapes

I. Palette

Unlike the whooper swans, our arrival under the waning light of an autumn moon was stealthy. Glassy lochs wavered midnight blue and surreal signs - ‘Feral Goats’ - and fragile deer encaged in red triangles punctuated our route. Morning brought vistas enshrouded in seal grey, tantalising shifts of predatory clouds revealed their prize. Only to withdraw the promise.

The sea, the only constant the mist can’t veil, unveiling the nuances of current and reflecting the winds. You too have your autumn colours of cormorant black, heron grey. Whiskey water rivers race across the landscape, feeding the peat from the stones’ muzzle. Trailing tails of spume lighten the umber until the canvas is painted, the view revealed –a raw impression of Skye.

II. Sea Cows

Prehistoric forms, no vulnerable manatees here. These swim across the Sound of Sleat, their lives in their hooves, gauging the vagaries of currents, bovine breaststroke as opposed to doggy paddle. The sea, a patchwork of hairy russet seaweed, fills with cowkelp ribboning across briny water, umber braids of pasta,