remembering a place only visited for one night in January

The notes of possibility… a dream of coming back.


Watching the sky change from light grey clouds to the dark of night in the space of a half hour.

The landscape here is so familiar: as if I’ve been here before, though we’ve only just met.

This room belongs to me already. Or perhaps I belong to the room.

If this were to be mine, I could breathe here.

I am already thinking of the things I would need to bring with me:

I would need music. Solitude needs sound. Sound needs to be danced in.

And many layers of clothes, warm slippers because the floors are cold. A torch and many lighters. Candles. Wellies.

Something to cover the window in the door with – there’s an empty curtain rail.

The landscape is of water and paths and mountains: a sketchbook and camera. A notebook or five.

A lot of chocolate, a blanket, a whisper of something to remind me where I have come from.


It is so beautiful it is almost heartbreaking.

Outside the window is a landscape that breathes and changes. As the light goes, the room and I are reflected in the windows.

Down a path, there is a tree that looks over a hundred years old. It has stories in the branches.

A highland cow told me not to walk towards it by opening and closing its mouth but I couldn’t hear what it was saying because of the sounds of the wind.

A gale is blowing, high on this hill.

A thousand dreams are drowned in the loch.

Here, my feet could be on the ground and my head could be in the open sky.

Let it come true, this dream that doesn’t belong to me yet. Let it live as a secret for now, till I know the answer: yes, or no.


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