Asides

Frank Carter

Asides
of a quiet man in Scotland

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Tuxford Press Burleigh Court NG22 0LE

Copyright Frank Carter

The right of The Author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act of 1988

Cooling Sands
Berwick to Wick long Scotlands east coast Stretches and pockets Of sand, marram, rock and shingle. The North Sea coaxes a breeze Down from the Arctic To whisper the shore Where sands stay cool and Any holiday-makers need have No fear of sunstroke.

Brora
Sheep on the hill, On the main street, On your back. On the menu; and Brora Sheep graze the golf course.

Spring-time terns bring Brief flash and chatter To the shore Then settle in pairs among the stones.

Local people come and Local people go Not very far. And if you stand still early evening You can listen to the silence.

Puffins and Eagles

Search the distance For small fish Large fish And maybe the Ice-cap. Life is A rainbow-bill of eels, sardines and

A safe burrow In the hillside. Life is Scaring off gannet and gull and

Having a kings claim to Herring and mackerel. Living is Here on the edge of Scotland

All the earth behind and All the sea before.

The Machars
One Friday afternoon We drifted into Garlieston and found On the greens by the shore, Schoolchildren practising bowls Under the watchful eyes of Their elderly tutors, And a dozen or so lobsters Weary and waiting in Creels alongside. We learned that Garlieston last saw a policeman Eight years since, when Cruggleton Castle had An invasion of termites. And if you climb up into The Machar Hills You can see Ireland.

West Highland
Its another world altogether when You wave goodbye to Tyndrum and Take the craggy route to Orchy, Duck the railway line And cross the A82 to contemplate The Black Mount and Glen Coe. Cant go back now Even if you wanted to. Besides, A cup of tea might be waiting at the foot of The Devils staircase. Therell be hare frisking while you tread slow And deer to wonder what on earth youre doing up here Among these heavens.

One For the album

And whats at Inverewe? The gardens, Osgood Mackenzie's tropical gardens: Exotic flowers, plants, trees; The Atlantic Drift, I explain, the Gulf Stream.

Its cold and its raining, she says, and the children Want to go somewhere to play. They do not want to stand outside Watching a tree grow.

But I am driving, so Inverewe it is. For the album I photograph purple toothwort, Japanese butterbur, marsh marigold, Corsican hellebore, the whole subtropical shebang.

For the album, she takes just one photograph: Two bonny wee things, Sisters, close and holding hands, keeping Each other warm in a field.

Tourist Information
Avoid the rush; Join us each Wednesday at 10 am For a stroll through Kirkudbrights ancient graveyards.
Well, it is Wednesday And there are graveyards But we cant find the rush.

Cuillins Call
The Cuillins put love on Harry Lauder. Love: Drawn to far-off places

And new experiences, Like finally making it to Kyle or Mallaig. Then stepping off from What you know and on to Skye and discovering The Red Cuillins at sunrise. Walking Glen Brittle By Sgurr Dearg and Alasdair to Where the sheep draw a line between Grazing and gabbro that Deep dark shimmering rock with Falls and hidden splinters of scree the Black Cuillins.

Forbidding, beckoning and Quite suddenly youre wrapped up in A misty wonderland, All resistance gone.

Highland Poets
Tobermory Ballachulish Bridge of Orchy John OGroats Inverary Back of Keppoch Kinloch Rannoch Campbeltown Peterculter Maryculter Tighnabruaich Stornaway Boat of Garten Aberfeldy Dalnaspidal Applecross.

Dianas Grove
The castle at Blair Atholl is Fine and grand, but there In the castle grounds stands A monument to the goddess of hunting, A garden of firs and larch that Reach to the skies.

Meet Douglas, a tall lad even by Grand Fir standards, A head higher than the Japanese Larch At a mere forty-four metres. And me a speck, an insignificant wee thing To these giants.

Corrour
Stand-alone railway station by Loch Ossian On the northern fringes of The Black Corries and Rannoch Moor. Train to Rannoch station No-one there, only The drifting fog and the cry of A mewing buzzard Somewhere off to your right or Was it to your left? Tackle the hills and the heather to Corrour. Eleven miles they say But who knows when youve mist and marsh To negotiate with a weak sort of smile and A fear touching your very depths?

The Lilties
Two old fellas playing The lilties. Jack the box and Tam the fiddle.

Over the sea Westering home, Road to Dundee Far as I roam.

Let the tunes lift you Tip-tap your feet. And In the bottom of your empty glass Youll see a better tomorrow.

Islay
Loch Indaal laps idle by Port Charlotte. The bar is packed to the rafters. Oysters, smoked salmon and chouder Bruichladdich, Bunnahabhainn, Laphroaig and Bowmore. February is a quiet month, Sometimes bleak, often ice-blast cold, always at peace with itself. Migrating geese drop in from heavy skies, Scrimmaging for green shoots and whatever morsels the locals leave out for them. On the straw-tinged fields sheep are painted. And where bare-boned willows droop motionless to the loch, Here are rocks, timeless and still.

Arrival

Youll have had a good journey? We had sheep everywhere and So many passing places. Aye, theres the sheep and The passing places right enough. Are we in time for breakfast? What time was you thinking of? We thought wed be in time ...... What time would that be? Ten-thirty? Breakfast is finished now. But youll be having a dram?

Footnote regarding the author:

The quiet man is drawn to the more remote and tranquil places and spaces of Scotland. His

observations are often whimsical, always affectionate and appeal to the reader to take notice of the understated charms and serenity of the country and its people. Frank Carter has written extensively about Scotland and Asides is one of a series of short poems looking back at his native land.