blossom chested linnets serenade against grey skies

Binoculars left by the window to admire the linnets in their little rusty coloured t-shirts, perched on the spindly silver birch tree overlooking the house. The humpback peak of Cairnsmore in the distance poking out above billowing clouds – a slither of grey that, if I wasn’t intently looking, I would have mistaken for another low rain cloud.

I wrote Grey Skies with this view. A solemn reminder that there is quiet beauty when you’re open enough to allow it in. Sometimes it’s harder to bear witness to and receive, sometimes there are multitudes of distractions that tease you away, and then there are some times when you simply don’t allow it to demand your attention to truly look; so you take it for granted that it will always be there.

Sitting amongst my hodgepodge of a garden today, a singular male linnet serenaded me from the highest branches. One of the rare occasions I remembered to have my glasses on me, and also not forget that they’re already on my head, so I felt lucky to be able to see him singing, and oh how joyous it was.
Reason being – I’ve been slowly teaching myself, through vigorous use of the MerlinBirdID app, how to identify birds simply from birdsong. Absolutely nothing to do with my declining vision (which again, of course, has nothing to do with my focus on screens…), but because I’m yet to be in the habit of carrying binoculars with me. Plus you usually hear them before you can see them anyway, and I guess my musical inclination plays a part in this too. However, having said that, I particularly love seeing the spectrograms populate in real time like little nerdy paintings. A multitude of senses engaged really helps me to learn, but ooh I am just fascinated with some of the most unusual noises and melodies they make and seeing that portrayed is really quite magical.

A few moments later I’m standing on a bench made of tree stumps and fence posts, hawk-eyed on a mysterious rustling, snuffling, and perhaps digging coming from a comically twitching motley of field grass, nettle, and creeping buttercup. I’d heard a small commotion, so came to investigate, and must have lorded over this weed patch for ten minutes or so waiting to catch a glimpse of the culprit, batting away a mirage of tiny flies that seep out with the last of the sun, and make me feel itchy to think about. I’m not sure what distracted me, but not too soon after I found myself pulling a new host of bindweed and fresh nettles from my wood chip path and quickly hopped back over to see if anything was still rummaging about. Nothing, and no sign of anything I could see from a quick nosey. I’ll keep you posted though. There is a particularly vocal family of shrews harking about those parts. But they’re wonderful guardians of my salad bed, even if they destabilise the soil with the little holes they make – so I’ll let them be. The slugs have yet to invade, and I thank them for it.

I was playing a museum opening gig in Carlisle last week, a fancy affair underneath an art installation of dangling slender pink nippled mushrooms, and a display featuring the largest salt pig I’ve ever seen (I assume for whenever you need fistfuls of salt at a time). Something witchy in all that, I’m sure. Besides the point though; there is a huge white cherry blossom tree in Carlisle, just over the railway bridge, next to a carpark. I perched upon a bench provided and scoffed my Greggs veggie sausage roll while marvelling its majesty. How wonderful it would be to hear the stories of this tree! Another year for it to wistfully shed its petals on a tempting breeze, draping over the curb, and forming soft squashed forms forced up the pavement by the churning of tires. “This used to be all fields” it would say, and I would imagine it was. How those petals would be allowed to fall, and become one again with the earth. How it would all happen again next year. ‘Mono no aware’. Transience. The fleeting beauty of the moment, and in the knowing it will leave. A few days later I called a friend, and they mentioned the blossom too. Cars covered in petals like snow. A win for the cherry tree! Oh, life. How it all ties together.

There is so much of this life to witness and live in, and indeed, through, if needs be. Now, reminiscing on this Cairnsmore cloud procession, somewhat ten or so years later since writing Grey Skies, I realise how integral to my day to day happiness purposefully noticing the imagery I reference in the song is, and breathing with it. The graceful mountains, the chaos of the sea, the sweetness of birdsong, the breeze tempting the fall of leaves, or more seasonally the cherry or apple blossom, crimson tinged sunsets, peaceful star studded evenings, and of course the calm drifting of clouds.

“oh help her see
those grey skies can be
blue”.

p.s fakkiebook reminded me that 5 years ago local writer, musician, and old family friend Alan McClure had covered Grey Skies – quite serendipitous really. (He gives a rather flattering introduction). Cheers Alan.

p.p.s a wee reminder that I live stream on wednesday’s 😉