The Walk


This story is dedicated to Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh.

An incredible source of existence, inspiration and expression of life

The Walk  

He looked up…
The sky folding over on itself in an army of grey marvel. The cold positioning itself around the back of his shoulders; following him around as a loyal dog would.  

The mountain that once breathed ferociously the hot air of the earth’s centre, now rests as a hibernating bear poised to exhibit his sharp, grey, yet harmonious world. 

A memory of his fathers words rings through him: 

“Your liberation and understanding sits at the top of that hill.” Urging him time and time again to climb to the top and beg for the secrets of his land. In tune with his father’s request he took for the muddy and steep ascent to the top. The cold air filling the chambers of his lungs as his heart stretches vigorously to accommodate the physical task ensued. 

 In a moment of misfortune he slips on an icy edge landing on the side of his face.

The ice beneath renders him motionless as it acts as a vacuum; his lips a light purple colour; sucked dry of its blood by the violent cold, quivering in the wind. A rare Scottish rose it resembles in the most gothic sense. Cursing at the cold of his land he raises himself, continuing his journey upwards.
 
Half way there, and in a moment of strenuous climbing he leans with his hands to the side of the path to regain his balance but not paying attention he finds his hands ravaged by a team of un-invited thorns from a bush. He stares at the smallest droplets of blood appearing, almost too reluctant to pour out at any speed, as if they were curiously assessing the mysteriously unknown world they have been thrust into. 

Aggravated and aggrieved, he carries on his fathers desire. 

With mud on his face hardened by the cold winds which begun their journey at the icy pastures of the north pole, toes and fingers frozen senseless, King Arthur finally arrives at his destination.
 

He sits slowly onto a low rock covered by a forest of moss, soft and inviting as a cushion he lays his bones and sinews to rest. He looks down on his hands slightly shivering, his nails brittle, the lines in his palms accentuated by a slight bed of mud and dirt.
 

In the corner of his eye he spots a triangular ray of sunlight shining proudly on a rock on top of the plateau. King Arthur looks up at his land. The sky, an immersion of a cloudy grey, a gallant purple and a fiery red, reflecting brilliantly on the surface of the sea, while the waves full of motion drag the colours of the late sun on its surface; like a painter toying with his choice of colours on his easel. The ravens and seagulls sharp and pointy, resembling the rocky sculptures below, circulate the skies ceremoniously, defined by the notion of freedom yet how admirable that they shall never desert their loyal friend the mountain during this lifetime. 

The triangular ray of light has tripled in size, the rock that it shines on sighs in appreciation as the ice that used to incase it begins to crack, the rock slowly undressing herself in anticipation of the warm touch of the sun.
 

King Arthur sees the bush that he had encountered earlier. Thick at its core, built over the centuries, layer upon layer, to bridge the wintery bite of the Arctic winds, its hands short in length pointed upwards towards the heavens, stand dramatically sharp in clusters of thorns. Preventing a disturbance of any sort to this meditation. Most interestingly of all and in the midst of this dramatic life-form lies a deep yellow flower at the tip of each hand. It’s a cry for patience, it’s a reminder to all its friends and other lifeforms fighting the winter, that the sun, that deep yellow orangey warmth is just around the corner. A true celebration of the wisdom that this bush has amassed over the centuries of wintery harshness it has experienced.
 

Tall and proud King Arthur stands, immersed in the beauty of his kingdom, blessed does he feel, his spirit light and renewed. Integrated with his land, sharing a realisation felt by his fathers and forefather.

by @madhoney

All photos are of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh and its surroundings, taken by myself with a Nikon D50 SLR with zoom lens.