The idea for this poem first came a few years back on East Lomond hill in Fife, during a trip with a writing group lead by Rebecca Sharp for the Falkland Stewardship Trust. We had a fine afternoon visiting archaeological teams excavating around the hill fort there. We were given a marvellous talk, and a real feeling of welcome at the site by Dr Oliver O’Grady, who very sadly died unexpectedly not long after. On the day we were there the skylarks were giving it laldy above the hilltop. For me hearing skylark song – followed by scanning the sky to try and spot the singer, then being amazed at their endurance – always seems to be something very special indeed about this time of year.
Hereabouts it’s skylark singing time again, so I thought it was about time this poem had an airing. There’s a reading further down the page, and also just below is a skylark recording I made not long after that outing to the East Lomond hill fort, but nearer home.
an archaeology of air
sea sans island, save those that never land,
wind as swell, day-to-night tides, air churns.
never empty of vapour or scent or dust or sound.
where was breath? or speech? can we see a chorus?
science rifles grace notes, the scores of other skies,
augers ratios of gases, time and seasons
in snow-pack cores cut from glacial blue.
ancient spring airs thawed unsung by any birds.
we might find castles, or dig ruins from the clouds,
while a skylark, beak agape and wings a-flicker,
beats time, and bounds a flight turned hover,
like hope pitched alive, aloft on gusts of song.
when the singer falls where does the music glance?
an archaeology of air is such a fleeting chance.
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