Picture This: Down the Road to Dunkeld

I am on the path beside the River Tay, watching that blue band of glass slide into the heart of the sunset. The ancient town of Dunkeld, standing just beyond the trees, is a quiet guardian of the sanctity that hangs in the air like dawn fog. A ghost of the in-between times. I sit in the grass overhanging the gurgling river as sticks float past, unable to think of a time when I’ve been happier doing nothing. Couples stroll by me on the path, smiles on their faces like petals on flowers. They are older than me, wiser, full of secrets that no tongue can tell.

Scotland superimposes itself over you. Every winding track, stony ridge, and forested glen takes you deep into the heartland, beyond the confines of comfiture and through the amnion. In Dunkeld there is a thousand-year-old cathedral, a wondrous bridge, a field of red deer, and forests that fall upon the shivering soul like grandma’s afghan. How have I found myself here, alone, cut from all the marionette’s strings? There is too much beauty in the world – more than I can take in. The thought blossoms like a moonflower in my breast, opens like a stent, as my reflection wavers on the water.