Colin Will
Hymeneal
(Ignalina, Lithuania)
The bees land on the lower lip of a carved giant – Babilas – bring blessings from cow parsley, Queen Anne’s lace, other umbels, figworts, all the flowers of the meadow’s multiverse. They enter his dark hollow heart, his comb-filled secret nectaries. His forbidding grimace is no menace to these million sweeteners. The clearing is consecrated to the religion of honey which gives grace to marriages. The bee-keeper, guardian, priestess, licensed solemnist, pronounces stern admonition on each couple, to be sweet hearts to each other, to husband the land and to bear their broods. We snack on a sugar-waxy sacrament, on bread, on cheese, on cucumber slices, drink mead and honey spirit shared with friends and guests, the traditional hospitality of hearth, history and honeypots. On the spot
At the top of the mountain a concrete pillar,
a modern megalith, flat-topped, three-sided, an inlaid brass track to take the surveyor’s instrument. My finger goes into the central hollow, the pivot point, and I walk round, spinning the landscape about me, whirling distant mountains, loch-bottomed glens until they merge into my panorama, a vision of the Highlands, centred on a stable point of known height, a reference for building triangles through the land until the country’s measured, noted down. How heavy is a mountain? How far is a glen? Does measuring the length of a river reflect its sparkle? Can it say how the water refreshed the eyes as much as mouth? Will it bring back the joys of a climbing day, the views, the drudgery, the scent of heather, the sight of ravens acrobatting from the crags, or a crouched hare twitching whiskers? There’s more to hill-walking than trigonometry Pacific Coast Highway
(remembering Jack Kerouac)
Bang on 8 am the bus rolled out of LA and onto Route 101. I dozed the first hour thru the suburbs, on elevated sections and miles of anonymous malls, squat blocks of stores, nitespots with stripper signs flashing orange against the blaze of day, factories, housing tracts, and gaps of nothing but scrub and desert, views of hills. Past Malibu we pulled over, a rest day for Bill, and walked the dunes at Ventura, yakked, watched Venus rise, drank the local wine, had no visions but thought about the trip so far, and the days to come. Off again, along the narrow strip between ocean and the Santa Ynez Mountains, fields of almond trees, pistachios, avocados, vine fruits. Morning stop was Santa Barbara, a quick walk around the Mission, downtown to the big Barnes & Noble, then off again, a short hop to Carmel, where Clint was not at home, but a likeable Spanish town. The roads divide at San Luis Obispo, and we took the coastal route. At San Simeon we looked in vain for zebras on the ranch, but giant boulders on a misty beach resolved to elephant seals, sleepy monsters. Above the Big Sur cliffs the coastal redwoods flourish and in a grove the size of ten cathedrals I touched these ancient sentinels, looked up and up and up and could not see their tops. Back on 101, it seemed a short stretch home to San Francisco, Market Street, the Bay Bridge, Oakland, my brother, a family reunion. |
In the Cut
The plane floats over the Painted Desert
then dips into a Grand Canyon dive, like the Death Star scene. Far below, between red ramparts, the Colorado is a viridian thread. Dark woolly masses in the sky – thunder cells –are skirted. Flashes so vivid they have no colour are sensed directly behind the eyeballs. Ashen feathers we know are rain fall between us and the sun. We’re stricken by scale, the many miles between rims, an immensity below. We peer down the strata from Kaibab Limestone to Vishnu Schist, rock colours water-brighter, distances rain-lensed closer. We land fizzing with excitement, puddle-jump across the soaked airstrip through the souvenir shop into clean-washed evening air Might have been
Yesterday’s fire blazed all evening,
warming the company, creating coziness, encouraging conversation, sharing stories and wine. As darkness outside deepened, you, or he, or she, or I, added new logs, watched bark catch fire, heard the fizz of steam from previous rain on the woodstore. As the heat reached little pockets of vapour they’d ignite with a pop, throwing glowing splinters out past the firebasket. You picked one spark off the rug, extended the fireguard, sat next to me on the sofa, clinked my glass. And that was when something might have started, flames reflected in our eyes, the centres of us, hands that might have flickered around us, between us, touching. But no. By the end of the evening we both saw the truth in each other, the glow of fire revealed our shadows. We left it there, went to separate rooms, and in the morning, meeting in that place, worked together, brushed the fireplace clean, shovelled up the ashes of the night. Morning
Courtyard panel slides back.
A maple, reddening in the first chills; sound of water; the stone trough overflows into the mossy channel. A flower, perhaps the last rose, floats, red against the dark surface. Bamboo dipper unhooked pours drops over hands, wets face, forehead. Wipe dry with white towel, step back inside. Hands clap twice before the little shrine, a modest, domestic focus, brass Buddha, incense burner, a quarter apple, handful of rice, a cup of plum wine. Bow. Again. Clap hands twice, turn away to the firepit, where the kettle for first tea is nearly boiling. It’s important to observe these morning rituals, these habits of reverence, settling the mind for the day’s turbulence. 
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