Seventy-one Things Paulie Should Know
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here.
r. burns, 1789
You were the pine, softening the dirt I grew up in: the one I climbed in the breeze. Wanting to describe you, I had called you Paulie. That is not your name. I followed the dust only you could walk on; told them, you were my soul. Don’t stress, – the dark forest needs no carbon off-setting. If they insist, tell them to plant the big ones with plenty of light and space in-between, and wait. See what happens. If still they want to bring back the ghost-wolves, let the trees grow all way up from Loch Lommand to Drumnadrochit. And wait. You still hanging around, Paulie? You can go. The Arvo Pärt version of Robbie’s poem, is pale yellow and insipid. Numbness, it is a hard thing. Primroses on the forest floor, wolf habitat. You can torque it, get the juice out, – sit in the pain, until the snow-melt runs off and into the burn. That’s music. Tell Flora. The last sound was a bubble; it came out of my ear. It’s been three days, Paulie. You checking: ‘Are you okay?’ Yes, they buried my bones, as I asked, alongside the crow ancestors in the drowned land where the grey hills are.
Arlette Manasseh has a Creative Writing MLitt with distinction from University of Glasgow (2023). She has worked in the arts & community in Scotland, London, Romania, China, Iceland, Shetland and Ukraine. She grew up in rural West Highlands, and returned to the peninsula in 2015.