Image – ‘Buzzards’ by Manika Patel

 

I stand on grassy slopes, the evening dew lending a wet sponginess to the ground. Bracing against the howling headwind, I crouch, brushing my palm against the soft spikes of the grass. I tuck my hands back into warm pockets, fingers numb from the nip of the frosty air.

I lie down, facing the evening sky. Scotland sits, content and cross-legged, across the vast expanse of the Malin Sea. She is gentle, whispering, Hold fast, hold strong. The wind carries her message to my ear.

My head is cushioned by moss, and slow dampness begins to spread. I tilt my head, nestling my cheek into the ground, and gaze across the eddying hillscape of Rathlin’s north coast. Tufts of grass, tall as skyscrapers, sway in the rustling breeze, striping my vision. Towards the east, dusk arrives. The crescent moon has already tipped her head, her dimpled smile distracting from the eeriness of the coming darkness.

I’ve walked this path many times. I am friends with the ants that march past that burrow, and I am greeted by frogs that gaily leap over this stream. I have been baptised by you, flying waterfall, as I stride beneath your wings.

With closed eyes, I see the path’s wriggling line imprinted on the backs of my eyelids in burning gold: the headlands that proudly salute the sea, and the bays that welcome the waves into their warm arms.

The rocky cliffs bracket me in, and I settle with a sigh into their firm embrace. On the other side of the island, limestone walls stand proudly with their backs to Scotland. Wave-cut platforms break apart, exposing ancient beings — shells, creatures, soft bodies; their light is trapped like a pressed flower between films of tissue paper.

Facing north, I consider the past, the present, the future. The coastline is a rugged, raw hem, its exposed threads drifting like sea grass, and I feel the pull of the deadly current like a siren’s call. Yet the soles of my boots remain firmly planted on Rathlin’s soil.

A buzzard soars overhead. Its luminous underwing glows in the gathering twilight. Its slow spiral holds me. I follow it until my neck aches, until the coast curves away. Somewhere between its circling and my stillness, something settles — unspoken, shared.