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{ Homeland }

Updated: Apr 29, 2019



Departure = the action of leaving, typically to start a journey


***

Under the lintel we leave to come home again and arrive back to a new departure.

Spider spins for meat and the gloaming seeps, tea-staining the overblown bright.

Those in the unseen, re-member.


Gathering closer our ancestors watch.


Dusty slantways light brings out the golden in the driest husk of time’s transparency.

Holy ochres, bloody rusts and nut browns dissolve into their cloak of becoming more than their parts.


Decay reminds us of the luster of spirit, the anticipation of leaving.

This yellow leaf waves a final farewell from the wide arms of oak.

Bronzing priceless coins not yet spent take another night frisking yet branch tethered in the moon’s toothy grin, awaiting rain, preparing for departure.


***

The leaves are holding on longer this year.

Their thin petioles secure, still nursing from the mother maple, still thirsty. Then (when) the wind’s tug and the leaf’s sucking slack.


Co-incid-ence.


A slick, seemless, release.

An independence.

An unknown stillness.

Landfall.


***


For three weeks I watched my feet fall upon a land that woke me up once upon a time ago. Over tarmac and moorland, machair and sand I roamed in good company. It is boring and cliché for me to call Scotland a homeland. But it is. In that presence, Being there brings a feast, a merry fair into my cells, brisk wind and salt and pined air cause my neuroses to pause, my wounds to wither. (T)Here is where I learned (grief), and catalyzed, and became aware of my honoring and deepest regard (love!) of the land, a renewed reverence for Autumn and all things naturally (un)bound.


{here and there and everywhere}

And from that a recognition, knowing, that each land; hillock, vale, estuary, isthmus, plain is equal, just a different quilt patch of the same sprawling luminous weave beneath my feet.


If nothing else I am remembering this; the friendly smile on Sauchiehall Street is the same very smile on the cashier at the gas station on Stout Road. The pebble, green and smooth and translucent in my left palm picked right out of the north Atlantic on the cusp of an Iona beach is the same old soul of red granite plucked off the dead end gravel of my Wisconsin youth, now tucked into my right hand.


And every man is the same man and my father, brother, lover, friend, mountain.

Every women my mother, my sea, yet not and more.

Every marble bone from the same human framework.

One skull, one heart, one land.


Indivisible.

***

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@ Tracy Chipman - Storyteller / Proudly created with sweet creative juice & some cursing!