Friday, 6 November 2009
Wednesday 4th November
Image Left: Moon over the bay.
Sometimes when I close my eyes I find myself rerunning old business trips, I can almost feel the gravity of the car against the camber of the road. These are the interludes of my old life, as if somehow I am reliving the spaces between events, the boredom. I know the junctions, the by-passes and lay-bys but the rest is lost to me as dull ache. Memory is hardly a reliable witness, all that remains of my childhood Sundays at church is a feeling that religion is about passively restraining people in their seats. How may hours of preaching, communions given and taken , hymns sung and demons exorcised to be left only with the resonance of fidgety legs?
This evening I walked the island’s small street of cottages tapping on living room windows and inviting the occupants to watch the moon rise out of cliff faces and mountains of Mull. People hung in the warmth of doorways while the brave made it onto the street their camera flashes flickering in the dusk.
At the last house I collected my son and wrapping him in a sling walked down to Christine’s bay. The rising tide had reclaimed the estuary for the sea but the ocean swells had not been invited. On the edge of the sand I watched the moon in its mountain home and traced a pillar of light over stillness.
Later at dinner people thanked me for the moon and I wondered whether somehow I was responsible for its presence.