Fueled by apple cider, I spent the afternoon reacquainting myself with my most beloved street: The Scores. It winds from the Old Course all the way to East Sands, from hotels and academic bastions to rugged sea coast, past the castle, through a village of homes, to a bustling fisherman’s port. I like it because it has everything. Even dry, pungent leaves. I shamelessly admit to shuffling through them to wake up their scent.
John Ruskin (I have just read) claimed that when you draw, something good happens to you: the ‘I like this’ becomes ‘I like this because . . .’ You start to notice why you like what you like.
Poetry and photography are my drawing. Looking and capturing makes me examine what I find beautiful and why it is beautiful to me. I like thinking about why I like. And, although you despised photography, Mr. Ruskin, it's my way of noticing. I write this post in your honor, pleased that you at least found writing an acceptable medium.
I like walking past the flowers that can never contain their curiosity. They tell me they hear lots of metaphysics and moral philosophy; who knew?!
The land may not be as lauded as the sea, but it is the hues of the land that set the sea up for accolades. I like you, cliffs and thistles, for your modest colors, for your patience with the sea who adores you and then changes its mind so often.
I love all of this, but the sight of these buildings positively makes my mittened hands tingle. How I liked you, Castle House and Kennedy Hall, because you let me gaze at the sea while I pondered tone and audience and semi-colons. I’m so very glad to see you, again---you and your soothing view.
And you, too, pip-squeak! I actually can’t believe you’re still here and I got to see you today. Even if you distracted me from poetry many an hour, I like you because you brave intense winds and somehow are always, always in the mood to twerp. You rock.
There are stones piled everywhere along this road, and some have stuck together almost a thousand years. I like the strength from random order.
You knew this was coming eventually . . .
At the end of the road hides a small port. The canal is filled with fishing boats, and then a bridge arches from the earthy coast into a still, small world of swans and quietness.
And I like you, oft-trekked path,
for always leading past surprises (hello, spring!) . . .
and then back home.