Ancient ruins is where the scenario began.
Quite some time has lapsed since there was
any significant sign of life here, any
conversation of worth.
A stump of a church, constructed by hand,
by small people for small people, is all
that remains, although there are further
remains under foot.
Mackenzies and Frasers, laid out side by
side, like grey paving slabs, or perhaps
they are just a reflection of the tomb-
stones, that i take an age dechiphering,
reasons for which, there are none.
Clan warfare, would be what left them
all here, closer in casket than in breath.
Infamous until prematurely slain, maybe
by their now permanent neighbours.
And then a song is heard, a peircingly
cute melody, a song to erase any aging
A perfect interception by a solo Chaffinch,
A rainbow of life, vibrating on a still
Is he serenading me or calling a lover,
searching for company in a remote highland
A photoshop moment, reality strikes a chord,
life and death together as one, fishing
for attention, and both winning their own
individual battles as always.
The Chaffinch now demands fully, all
concentration, as there would appear to
exist a second songster, where is yet
to be seen.
It sounds like an echo, but can that
be possible ?
The church is hollow ( in many ways ),
and incapable of a sound rebound.
There must be a solution, and indeed
it soon becomes apparent, that the
answer lies in an apple!
A very modern apple, no core or shiny
red skin to this particular fruit, not
born to any known tree of nature, but
man made in a factory, an institution
of today`s society, familiar to both
you and me.
An apple I-phone is what has stirred
the feathers of Mr Chaffinch, releasing
tunes from his harmonious throat.
It`s set to I-tunes and is playing a
birdsong cd, as it lays alone under
a hedge, and then i see my Uncle,
sitting on a wall nearby, his smile
as wide as a Loch, as he stares up
into the tree.