15 September 2013
The morning has been a gale of rain and wind. At St. Giles’ this morning, someone brought in their harvest of apples, and someone else brought in white plums. We took home bags of each.
Before the Wind
If I’m to happen upon the hill
where cherries grow wild
it better be soon, or the yellow-
eyed birds will come squabbling
claiming the fruit for their own.
Wild means stones barely
clothed in flesh, but that’s rich
coming from me. A mouth
contains a cherry, a cherry
a stone, a stone
the flowering branch
I must find before the wind
scatters all trace of its blossom,
and the fruit comes, and yellow-eyed birds.
The wind is a distinct kind of weather, especially Scottish wind. It makes the rain feel like sea-spray, it demands more of you, it takes your strength, your warmth, your footing, your balance. But it gives the gifts of weightlessness, of being washing clean with air, of simplicity, of focus, of support, of adventure.
Nothing like a windy day to make me feel like a sailor on land. Nothing like a new harvest to make me of the earth.