The Secret Song

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Algy flew into the edge of a forest beside the great sea loch, and found a cosy spot where he could recline on a soft bed of grass and dry bracken. Lying back among the autumn foliage he stared up at the tall trees towering above him, listening to the sounds of the birds and tiny insects who were going about their daily lives in this peaceful environment. It was much calmer inside the forest than on the shores of the loch, and he could hear many wee rustling noises and murmurings of the forest folk. Algy reflected on the amazing complexity of life that went almost entirely unnoticed most of the time… It reminded him of a children’s poem which he had discovered recently:

Who saw the petals
drop from the rose?
I, said the spider,
but nobody knows.

Who saw the sunset
flash on a bird?
I, said the fish,
but nobody heard.

Who saw the fog
come over the sea?
I, said the sea pigeon,
only me.

Who saw the first
green light of the sun?
I, said the night owl,
the only one.

Who saw the moss
creep over the stone?
I, said the grey fox,
all alone.

Algy hopes that you all have a calm and peaceful Sunday xo

[Algy is quoting the poem The Secret Song by the early 20th century American writer of children’s books, Margaret Wise Brown.]

Wild the Clouded Gleam

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Algy perched on a large rock beside the quiet loch and watched the dark clouds scudding fast across the sky. It was clear that he would soon be drenched again, but for the moment a rare burst of sunshine was providing some much needed light and a wee bit of comforting warmth. The autumn was advancing rapidly, and the damp leaves and grasses were glowing with their last bright colours before the fall. Not that leaves often had a chance to fall naturally in the wild west Highlands of Scotland; more likely, they would be all be gone with the wind, when the next Atlantic storm blew in…

Somewhere on the hillside behind him, a robin was quietly warbling its autumn song, and as Algy listened to its sweet notes he was reminded of another song, by Canon Dixon:

The feathers of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
Above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty now the rushes,
And wild the clouded gleam.

The thistle now is older,
His stalks begin to moulder,
His head is white as snow;
The branches all are barer,
The linnet’s song is rarer,
The robin pipeth low.

[Algy is quoting The Feathers of the Willow by the 19th century English cleric and poet, Canon Richard Watson Dixon.]

Monochrome and Colour

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Some days it rained all day without a break, and some days the rain paused for a while, to rest and recuperate. On those days there were occasional bursts of light while the clouds regrouped, and it was often possible to see the dividing line between the monochrome world and the full colour version. Algy was intrigued by these changes, and watched in fascination as the clouds and rain wiped the colour out of the landscape, and then short spells of sunshine restored it.

Algy hopes you will all have a happy and relaxing weekend, whether it is in monochrome or in colour 🙂

[ This photo has not been altered to create the divide 🙂 ]

The Silver Loch

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The West Highland weather was taking a walk on the wild side, but at times it paused to rest and reflect. When Algy was sure that the wind had dropped down to a tolerable level for a wee while, he flew over to the sheltered silver loch and perched on a rock. It was calm and peaceful there, and the lap lap lap of the tiny waves soothed him like a gentle lullaby. Although Algy loved the untamed ocean and the pounding of the breakers close to his home, it was undeniably pleasant to be able to relax for a while in a softer, more serene environment…

Lifting Fog

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When the morning sun filtered through the soft white curtain of fog, the beautiful, warm colours of a Highland moorland in autumn started to emerge in patches here and there. Algy leaned back comfortably against a wee ledge on one of the numerous rock outcrops, and watched the colours increase in intensity and begin to glow as the sun gradually lifted the fog from the hillsides.

Foggy, Foggy Dew

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The fog had decorated every tiny blade of grass and every delicate seed head with pearly drops of water which hung motionless in the unusually calm air. Algy was surprised to see that there were still a few wee heather flowers blooming here and there, although it was nearly October, and the bees were still buzzing busily, despite the excessive dampness which not only descended from above but oozed up squelchily from below to soak Algy’s tail feathers whenever he perched on the ground…

Dancing Softly to Himself

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For as far as Algy’s eye could see, delicate, lacy spiders’ webs and gossamers were strung across the grasses and low-lying plants of the moorland and peat bogs, each one glistening with its own special string of dew drop pearls. It looked like a magical, misty fairyland, and Algy was entranced. Choosing a spot that was not too impossibly soggy, he perched there for a while, watching the webs sparkle in the morning light and their tiny inhabitants going about their daily business. He remembered a poem by Emily Dickinson, and wondered just how many spiders were dancing softly to themselves in his tiny wee corner of the Scottish Highlands… and how many must therefore be dancing across the great wide world as a whole…

The spider holds a Silver Ball
In unperceived Hands –
And dancing softly to Himself
His Yarn of Pearl – unwinds –

He plies from Nought to Nought –
In unsubstantial Trade –
Supplants our Tapestries with His –
In half the period –

An Hour to rear supreme
His Continents of Light –
Then dangle from the Housewife’s Broom –
His Boundaries – forgot –

[Algy is quoting the poem The Spider Holds a Silver Ball by the 19th century American poet Emily Dickinson.]