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On the swivel chair near the loch, the blue stained circles so far acknowledged as my eyes remain fixed upon the mountain. I exist next to the creamy-grey marble angel with the long lashes. A souvenir. Of my culture and my blood. The back of his head is broken. It adds valour. The dimness of the light, how like the mandolin. My blues convert the off-white.
His eyes are veiled in sign of pleasure derived from the art of playing. I stare at the loch again and discern the slight turbulence, which in mellowness torments the red, red miniature of a boat. He must be going home.
He’s an angel, while me, I’m just a hazard. Just as good. The marble specimen of heaven is modest. It’s all in the flowing lashes. The neck is engulfed by a medieval collar. One hand is pressing the frets with reverence, the other hand is striking the chords with art. Artisan, artifact, artful. Blond helmet hair and passion. And passion.
The white feathers are coming down, but me, I’m right opposite my angel gazing at the loch. There are the frills on the mountains, the lumps at the feet, the froggish green; patched. Cotton balls frolic in the mist, descending very much like the swirling and then flowing feathers of the angel. Forced down by gravity, as the gown, forced up by spirit and grace they crease.
My stomach is complaining, but it has enough to feed on.
Green leather chair. Mahogany thoughtful desk. Orange lampshade. My pen. Skidding across the lines of my mind. It’s all about me isn’t it? It’s all about Ecosse, the lochs, the beinns, the lilt. The symphony of culture and self. Resonant accents, always resting where they never can. It is ironic and sarcastically pleasant. It vexes me the way in which I cannot pour my thoughts into the loch. (The stretch of skin.) So I’ll just break the jug and let them splash around and mix with splinters. You can dye me if you please, but I’ll never forget the aromatic, comfortably cold island, or the lilted accents, husky dancing voices and the warmth of whisky.
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