September is upon us.

The kids are back at school, and this weekend, Dunoon is askirl to the sound of massed bagpipes as the annual Cowal Games begin. The year is turning, and I always feel a tinge of sadness coming like the premonition of winter…

The colours of autumn are already seen in the tops of the oak trees around beautiful Loch Fyne.

Which turns me all poetic;

September

The water moves like light on glass
It slides in silver strands
Stretched out by tide
Underlined by the wake
Of a fishing boat
Pulling a wave that shines and rolls
Like a whales back

And for a backdrop
The low sunlight
Makes sepia the ancient hillside
Here kissed by gold
There deep in the shadow of a summer almost gone

Above the ragged hill farm
Dogs hurry sheep to lower ground
Flowing like beads of mercury over the folds of ground
Until a corrugation funnels them out of sight
And the hills are empty for their passing

In the moment
I take nothing for granted
I close my eyes
And blink back a tear
Blown out by a cold wind
And try to pixelate
Perfection.

September 2005, Loch Fyne.

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