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Finally, I have got round to putting “The House of Trees” into format for e-publishing on Smashwords. Please go and have a look. You can download the first 20% for free, and the whole darn thing is only $2.99 in whatever format you would like.

House of Trees cover3a

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Simonhlilly
Book page to sample or purchase The House of Trees: http://smashwords.com/b/302318

Here is the foreword to that book:

“FOREWORD

This long poem was composed in the late autumn of 2012 and through that winter into January 2013. It was conceived on the Isle of Skye, Scotland, during a short visit there. The main themes emerged from elements within that spectacular landscape, and became woven together into an exploration of the nature of freedom. At this time Scotland was again considering whether it would be better off as an independent nation, planning for a referendum in 1214. The history of Scotland, as with most small countries, is full of external pressures and influences. The yearning for freedom is palpable, as much as its strong sense of identity, but seems to be tightly knotted together with nostalgia, pain, suffering, the past and the mythic presence of its Celtic inheritance. My heart opens and relaxes whenever I return to Scotland. Although I was not born there, (and my traceable ancestry is largely rural English and Welsh), I lived and studied in Edinburgh for six years during the 1970’s and 80s, and always look forward to breathing its air again.
Everything we know, every place we cherish, is mythologised and overlain by countless personal coincidences. Significance and resonance colours all our perceptions and memories, often without our conscious knowledge. Poetry is maybe the most precise and accurate means to explore and record these deeper tides of the mind. When we make judgments, when we are asked to decide, it is not the rational mind that pulls the strings. That sensible voice of justification is merely the storyteller that weaves more stubbornly held beliefs and preconceptions into a political statement of policy. The past is not just a record of events. The past maintains itself and evolves through the present. The present, it might be said, is merely the visible tip of the submerged iceberg that is the past. It is in the same way that, amongst traditional cultures, the visible world is conceived as being a reflection, or an elaborate set of clues, to an underlying and much more powerful realm of spiritual beings.
“The House of Trees” is a weaving of these levels of mind: my mind, the mind of the land, the mind of its peoples and the powerful dreams that haunt every pool and rock. The outer always mirrors the inner. To attempt to differentiate the subjective from the objective may be thought by some as the noblest goal of science, a compassionate climb out of foggy ignorance into the clarity of certain knowledge. Indeed, the failure to make the distinction between inner (imagined constructs) and outer (perceived objects) is regarded by some as a sure sign of mental illness in this civilised world. The paradox, the mighty joke, is that both in our most detailed examination of the nature of matter and in our more hesitant exploration of the functioning of the mind the deeper we delve, the less substance we can find. Certainty evaporates like an ice cube in the sun. Each horizon is a dream illusion can never be attained. We yearn, reach for and remember stories that placate or vindicate us, that tell us how we got to where we are, that tell us the roads by which we can go on a little farther.
Simon Hughes Lilly
Exminster, Devon, England. Spring 2013″

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From Broadford

5

      The house at Luib

It is not the same,

There on the other side

Of Beinn na Caillich,

Beside the dark loch waters,

Still and brown.

Beside the heron-guarded

Loch of Ainort.

The houses of stone

Grey-walled,

Under shadows.

 

It is not silent,

The house at Luib.

For how can a thing

So merged with the world

Not be full

Of the whisperings of the world,

Its sighed breathings?

 

Not mice, though,

Amongst the rafters,

But birdsong.

Nothing but a thatch

Of cloud

And a drift of mist

Above

The moss-green

Tumbled walls.

 

No door

To open in welcome.

No scent of peat nor brose.

No fire at all,

Except the spark of sunrise

And embers at evening.

 

A house of trees,

Whip-thin and tall:

There together birch and rowan,

Maple and willow,

Carpeting the hearth,

Scattering green and gold

(more gold than this house

Ever saw before,

And of richer worth than metal:

Bestowing the soil,

Brightening the eye

On autumn paths).

 

Those who called this home

Shall be long, long gone.

Not sleeping near

Listening to the oystercatcher

On the shore,

The raven

On the slopes of Scalpay.

 

They will be lost

Across the seas.

Deserted by kindness,

Faces washed in salt,

Eyes empty of hope,

Hollowness growing

By the long mile.

 

And so it is

A house of trees,

A conversation

Of saplings.

This house empty of laughter,

Empty of singing.

No longer the home of men

Nor the smell of wood-smoke.

 

The bright trees growing,

Their root sinews sucking

The debris of memories:

Branches conversing together,

A chattering of leaves.

 

The old, sweet language

Sighing away

On the wind

Over the dark waters.

A soft calling

Of the lover to bed;

A hum, a song,

A tune for working;

By the fireside:

The telling of tales –

The day’s pouring,

Silver, gasping catch

Out on the wave.

 

So they have all become trees.

The memories growing to stories.

Casting seeds,

Changing with the seasons.

Our thoughts,

Boughs and branches.

Our intentions,

An agitation of leaves.

Our dreams,

Rooted hidden, out of sight

But deeper,

Deeper than we would even guess

Sustaining our place

Gripping rock:

The spinning world.

 

We would want for nothing

In our own place of belonging.

No distant yearning,

No sad lament

(except the lament of edges).

 

For always the living

Wraps the dead

As the ivy the stone

As the moss and lichen cling

’til they too become sky,

A dust

On the storm winds

Of autumn.

Beinn Na Caillich, Broadford

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CillChroisd2

The House of Trees

4

       Cill Chroisd

 

On the road to Elgol

That dances its way

In the dark and light

Of moving skies.

 

Breathing up and down

Sliding beside loch and ben.

 

Between the green toes

Of Beinn na Caillich –

(she, who, giving birth to the land,

Remains unconcerned

But ever watchful)

 

Beneath the raven’s wing,

Beneath its long, far cry;

Amongst the short grass,

Sheep-cropped and hummocked,

A blanket fit for sleep and dream,

They have placed the corners

Measuring the ordered landscape

Of the dead.

 

Here lies a MacLeod

Under the brown breast

Of Beinn na Caillich.

He has not angels by his head,

Nor angels by his feet,

But four eternal trees –

Green flames of yew –

To shade him from too much sun,

Too much starlight.

 

Four trees

Grown from his bones,

Fed by the exhalation

Of his long sigh in sleep

And promised rest.

 

They will be a shelter

From the four quarter’s winds

That winter howl along

The dark glen.

 

They will be a shelter

For the small birds

Singing him joyful

‘Til his Judgement.

 

A sure roof

Outlasting the crumbling of walls –

The green, sky-stretched,

Wind-hugged branches

To bear him back home.

 

Here he shall have peace.

Peace, but for the hooded crows.

Peace, but for the sheep

Tugging the small, green tumps.

Peace, but for the passing wanderer, curious.

 

They have built for him

A house of earth

For the earth of his body.

They have planted for him

A house of trees,

Seeded from his flesh,

Grown from his sinews

So that he can live for eternity

In holy wood.

They have built for him

A house of song-

The wind in the ivy,

The swan and the curlew-

For his soul to stretch out.

 

Who would not want a mountain

As a headstone?

Without cold in the bones,

A delight to watch for centuries.

Without a watery eye:

The storm winds, a delight.

And to drink the peace

Of the cloud-tangled rushes

In the evening and morning time,

Rippling with diver and otter.

Who would not melt to moorland?

Rich peat mixed with memories

Of the long-gone,

The onward patter of rain.

110RoadToElgol

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Kyleakin evening

2

 Weavers of the Sidhe

Two came at twilight

From the rath,

Cold with curiosity,

Small as children

But with strange eyes

And smiles too old,

Far too old.

To see who it was

Carried the silence

By the shore

That was not the grey heron’s;

To judge the cry of one

Neither curlew nor oystercatcher;

To weigh the harsh throat

Not of the hooded crow

Nor of the raven.

To find the mote

In sunlit attic,

It’s dance to forgotten harp

Dusted earth, dreamt melody –

Dream nerves tied to sing of rock,

To follow the dancing road.

When they speak

Small blue flames flicker

Upon their tongues.

Their eyes –

Corridors of starlight

From distant galaxies.

Their thin fingers

Cat’s cradling

the centuries.

They are the same

Our ancestors knew:

Changeless,

Dissolving in midday light,

Returning at twilight

With shadows dancing.

They belong to place,

But not to time.

They are the rolling,

Rising, blue distance-

Yearned for,

Unattainable.

032LochDunvegan

3

The Secret Commonwealth

Cast out,

Cast down

From Heaven’s brilliance.

Not falling for the passion of rage,

Nor swayed by the unforgiving violence

Of righteousness,

(The simple, clear lie

of polarities, justice, truth).

Condemned by the Most High

For failing to take sides.

Falling down,

Down

Into twilight.

Neither here nor there,

Backwards or forwards.

It is why they flock to song,

Delight in the poet,

To what moves by its stillness,

What reverberates with passion,

Profound ephemera,

Guileless illusion,

Flash of gold,

Uncertain Reality.

Shot-silk seasons

Rich with the Opposite.

Reflection on reflection,

Echoed echoes.

Not dead, nor living

They are the rolling, rising blue distance,

The accumulation of dream,

Repository of yearning,

Perfume of nostalgia.

The processions, the slow

Dance:

Terrestrial constellations

Caught sight of peripherally,

Oblique,

Canny,

Ambivalent,

Unnerving.

Bane of priests,

Defiers of logic.

Snake language – fast

And sparkling.

A danger to mortal dreamers

Who might fade

Into the world,

Feather roots merging,

Knowing and edges blurred

Into the song of presence.

Perhaps returning,

(if at all)

With a fragment of lament,

An air,

A pavan,

A secret wrenched from time,

Lost within time again,

A wonder,

A treasure,

A mystery unholy,

Disengaging from certainty.

Duirnish sky1

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