There are so many beautiful places in the world. People now travel far more than in the C20th. My parents were unusual in that they went to America in the late 1920s but thankfully, they returned a few years later. Had they not, I might have now been living in Trumptown.
I do despair though when I see so many people taking selfies. I want to take photos of the landscapes, not photos of myself. I know what I look like and I know where I am. I don’t need a selfie to remind me or anyone else. When I look at other people’s photos I want to see the views, not the view partially obscured by bodies.
There was an interesting article in the Guardian by Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett who writes about the current addiction to selfies and Instagram.
In spite of all the beautiful places I’ve seen, the places that have inspired more of my poetry are all in the Machars triangle of Dumfries and Galloway. I’ve lost count of how many poems have been written after walks on the beaches here.
This is one of the many …
Capturing Medusa at Monreith
There, a rock cloaked with wrack
no longer sea-sculpted clean, but
now a gorgon, hunched over victims.
Varicose veins of knobbled quartz
protrude as white fat in a carcass.
Chthonic tresses cast dark shadows
onto greywacke. High above cliffs,
ravens blot an ink-blue sheet of sky.
My camera captures lurking Medusa
while raucous ravens fly away free.
Life's a Beach 