Fraser and His Scottish Garden: The Diaspora in Reverse

On your relentless journey to the lodestar, you may pause for reflection ...Jadis, and renewal , in the ancient garden of the Culdees.
The obscure locale, the numinous tremolo of that subterranean atavistic beat, and the exalted primacy of Chroma struck from the finest chords of eloquent birdsong.

Always , the sound and feel of water, in all its transformative manifestations, and Chroma, predicated on light and darkness and every subtle gradation therein. The sound of wind that is the spirit multitude, 'the great majority' returning Applause.

Golden and green light as a benison to the weary traveller, in both the minds eye and instinctive but sleeping, tribal memory. The very fibre, essence and inviolate core where the crystalline salts of sea and sand, meet the slow dropping silvers of sky born onset.

Two thousand and five hundred years after my initial departure, I have been returning annually, and unwillingly , in the seventh year of the last decade of the second millenium.

I fell once more from a stormy sky;... here you grip your candles fast , as the gales of November buffet your portals and eaves without . Your modest accommodation, your thin walled shelter, embowered in Hazel wands and Alder breaks. And peering wildly , half mad into the stygian blackness of the midnight lagoon, ... start at a sudden gust of stellar blowback, ... a sort of blasting whooshing sound to your startled ears and spinal shiver, with the effect of pushing the smoke and fire the wrong way out of your ingled woodburner.

And there in the centre of your monastic cell , it appears in a rising columnar shaft of billowing smoke and aura.

The ectoplasmic manifestation of your spirit familiar, no, not the Asmodeus of legend , not the rime of any sea blown myrmidon. No never that , nor ghostly wraith in vaprous inchoate incarnate.

It was only the appearance of conscious wonderment, the ID of the EST that is the Homunculi of ones own ignorant psyche.

And so you are careful not to drip any more hot wax onto your brow or onto your book, and marvel at the uncanny conspiracy of the wind and the fire and the smoke, and what skill with which an anthropomorhic form is conjured.

The September 'baby', left with its new family in November, it was chromatically autumnal as befits the colours of the dying season. Only a hint of scarlet lake in its yellowing horizon, on a high pressure day with no wind and few clouds,.... as rare as the rarity it portrayed, and only captured in remnants and fragments of clues to the viewer, who marveled and said, ' Yes , that is how it is... that is how we see it too... , this consolation to the creator , is all we have left beyond a photograph and a memory , and the importance of remembrance is what they take away.

Sylvasque a la Festina was the re iterated elysian chant that Hildegard Von Bingen brought to the gate of an evening, the random eclecticism of the ages, all enveloped and complete in a small jewel box.

A glorified fire lit garden shed of an abode, cached in the greenwood cell of a nearly , ( but not quite ) Miltonic Comun, Hazel, Alder, Bluebell, Comfrey, Nettle, Sorrel, Meadowsweet, Valerian, Rowan, Fireweed, et Dan de Lion, du Saint Sacre de Collis de Maudziss Estee Bagare du Jardinier, Awaaaaaay!

( Here endeth the first Chapitre in the Liosta of Friseil MacIomhair ) ..... Canto deux a suivi