‘Musings on Flow in the Flow Country’, ‘Green Man’ & ‘Isle of Erraid’

Musings on Flows in the Flow Country

at a point where i hung
suspended between states
i travelled north to gaze
into cold eyes of peat bogs
and learn 

about slow change
selfhood bending under
weight of ages
flows. but i
am made of many
and through me
rips a new

  foinaven, finally. 

tiny havens in
my hinterland
preserved –
nonetheless time
flows. bog cotton
rips away
ideas. i move
in dragonflies
i, sticky
catch a midge
on my leaf-tongue
i consider

matters close to my skin
dubh, still
motion in rivulets
thought to thought
heavy turf
draw me
i am sharp

i am scree
i am loose
my wind-shrieked
belongs to no one

mine is the unfettered
dive of osprey



Green Man

underlit by green
           he flickers on the hill

trapped indoors he withers

i try to preserve him under glass but find
flecks of earth obscure
his visage, dark dots
that hold roots & spatter carpets
host tiny hordes that carry off
babies, arc men to grinning
deaths, swirl serenely in

with the quiet of centuries
of sediment he watches
me, stone hill fort
             splintered tree trunk
                         heavy face of fog


Isle of Erraid

i crossed a vast causeway of white
sand to reach you, the sea
to rush and drown me
from all sides.
i kept my eyes on you
stony-faced, gull-topped.
eventually i touched you
fragments of shell
in the grooves
of my boots.

i scaled you, which was easy
for rocky though you are and riveted
with crags and gullies and
dizzying drops to foam
you are an island only thinking
of high peaks, really hunched low
but truly an island –
when the tide came in
it surrounded us
and i clung to you.

i lay in your arms
a while, looked
at the long horizon
with your eyes.
i spoke to the wheeling
gannets, and the wind
tore the voice from my throat
and scattered it.
but you heard me
reverberating in you

on the edge of my world, my island
not mine, only mine.
a row of whitewashed cottages
legacy of the lost lightkeeper
and i imagined staying, hiding
out the winter storms
spray stinging my cheeks
and long, low months of dark. 

but i left you
when the waters parted long
enough for me to cross
that singing strip
of sand, my escape
warm lights in windows and
safety. i left you
alone, buffeted by the breakers
of the atlantic, all winter
long, untended.

my island, not mine
i am no lightkeeper.
but extend to me
your causeway –
i will return. 

Lead Image by Kathy Hinde. Check out ‘The Flow Country‘ and ‘Deep Listening Walks‘.

Creator’s biography

Chloe Hequet is a writer, poet and nonspecific creative currently based in the back of a draughty old manor in Fife. Her work explores self-perception, neurodivergence, relationships and disability through the lens of the natural world. Born in the United States and raised in a multicultural household in London, in recent years she has found special inspiration in Scotland’s dramatic light and eerie, austere beauty. Her poetry has been published in the The Round, in Providence, Rhode Island. She also writes surrealist fiction and is currently working on her first long piece. When not writing, Chloe can be found with her dogs in the woods, or constructing elaborate headdresses.