I enjoy gardens. The scent of green grass beneath feet, the abruptness of bursting shrubs as insects flit and birds gather, children play; being surprised by shape, colour, space; the wonder of life and enjoyment of creation.

In making gardens; I don’t mind a bit of early planning and digging and shifting - the pleasure of hard work, muscles aching, sweat creation. But I can’t be bothered with the fiddly stuff, picking weeds, trimming borders, fussing over the minutia of exactly which plant pot should be where. I’d rather scatter seed than individually plant each one, I’ll happily leave such labour for someone else but enjoy the end product.

I love to feel rainfall soaking into the ground, making love, running across footpaths, conceiving streams, refreshing plant-life, giving birth. I love the tingle of electricity in the air, the crack and the boom, warm rain cascading in torrents. Yet I can feel the sadness of a dull drizzly, keep-in, stay warm day - there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

I love to feel the sun warming the earth, steam rising to be carried on the breeze, bare feet on hot grass, bird song and insect hum, warmth against pale skin. The freshness of morning, the glow of lazy evening. Yet when the sun burns hot in the day,  I hide in the shade and wish for rain.

I love to watch a river flow towards the sea. It is the residue of rainfall, the run away, the soaked earth’s surplus. Giving life to unseen plants and creatures below it’s flowing surface. I guess some will be snared to appear from my tap, whilst much will replenish the sea before being captured by the sun and returned as rainfall - nothing wasted, nothing unneeded, ever flowing cycle of creation and re-creation means I can enjoy this garden on a cool damp April day.

In 1997 I wrote a series of poems inspired by the weekly pilgrimage around Iona. In last weeks visit I decided it was time to re-visit that idea and see what a new version might look like. Once a few more of the group have posted their photographs on flikr I may well illustrate the poem with some pictures - but for now I will let the words stand on their own.

Pilgrimage 2010

Warm welcome is piped,

our departure sung,

and onlookers stand in curious gaze.

We have lost count

of heavens deft touch

and the delicate way earth responds.

Open silent walls,

Yet sisters tell tales

and remember scented flowering verbs.

We heard Sophia’s

affirming new voice

and tread silently, silently on.

At the meeting place

a people worked hard,

and parted for distant new found land shores.

Our race died here

or else embraced life

moving past the place of no return.

Following waymarkers

over hidden stones

and a misty uncertain horizon.

Tell old stories

to seek a new cause,

soaring beyond imagination.

Idle rusted tool

hides joyful primrose

and rich veined marble shards wait to be gleaned.

Unseen work stands

at nations centre

and heads homeward as loving token.

At Columba’s bay

tiny cairn is built

and a well worn myth climbs inviting cliffs.

We are made new

with un-thrown stones

carried boldly into mission’s soul.

Conversation flows,

languages collide

a coloured stranger is wasted unused.

Enrichment stalls

fresh life is ungiven,

we say prayers and sup Adam’s clear Ale.

At the barbed runrig,

pure pleasure is clubbed,

and natural returns as farms decline.

We have made chains

and broken old links

singing new songs of justice and faith.

Hilltop look out post

mountaintop echoes

crying for well remembered dreams lived out.

Not in wild currents,

but in chuckling song

and blithe reply to prodigal reign.

Silently

bog-step

gate-close

insect-hum

wrapped in a mantle

of whisper.

Ancestors dancing

James and Isa

Dan and Annie

Helen, Betty

Morag and Barbara

Naming our saints

Piping our welcome

Singing our heavenly touch.

News comes slowly here

and a wee girl dances

as Mum sings of unmourned detainees.

Innocent hope

welcomes fresh future

even as death stalks friend and stranger.

And we turn inland,

to life left behind,

renewed somehow in a quick sideways glance.

Clearing poetry

Shaking images

of grace-filled welcome at stranger’s gate.

© Craig Muir 2010

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

Written in the refectory at Iona Abbey, whilst staff worked and guests created poetry

Clearing poetry
Active thinking
Knowing doubt
Cooking words
Chattering pen
Shaking image
Wiping ideas
Cleaning nouns
Spraying verbs

Watching workers
Passing cups
Writing tables
Revising cloths
Looking aside
Sitting un-still
Thinking laughter
Silent greeting
Telling task

© Craig Muir 2010

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.