Sunrise Over Arthur's Seat

4:43 in the morning
weary, bleary-eyed, determined
she and I set forth
I'd have rather gone alone, but
they already told us not to
the mountain might be dangerous, maybe
killer sheep
so we had to stick together
"together is with myself" I said
(to myself)
and i agreed
but they didn't
so together and together
me and her
we set out

like an adventure
[Into the Woods] a journey
over the river and through the woods,
to--
offshore and overland and abroad
bringing our sets and props and costumes
plaster and ribbons, not quite what we had at home
pared down like travelling players
we set out
me and her and them
all of them, Witch and Cinderella and Jack
Baker's Wife, two singing Princes and a tower--
a ladder in truth, borrowed--
and me and her
(the other her
not the one on the mountain, the one backstage
with the headset and the script and the steely eyes
and me with a flashlight in the wings
whispering 'go!' and 'be quiet!'
though they never did, actors)
and that is why we came

but the play and the players were silent at 4:43
like Arthur in his tomb
nevermind that we had crew-call at noon
one chance never there again, not in the same way, no
never the same adventure, parent-less in the lush
green, cold, windburnt land
scudding clouds
darkness primeval
not like the day before
wading in a Scottish stream, boots left on the bank
flailing, frigid and laughing
loud, with the others
running through the heather
then backonthetourbus and letstakepicturesofthebagpiper and
breathe deep
smell the air
no, I never really got the chance then

and so it was 4:43
or maybe 4:44
and we went quietly, with our flashlights
reflex action from backstage
(where we crept like thieves to change
the furniture, turn the set around
forget to place the prop phone
small disasters never noticed
the audience only sees what you show them)
and up, up the mountain
where we had gone before in a pack
flashing photographs of the city
tourists
but not now
now we were passing stone walls, gardens
toadstools, faery rings maybe, lost in the darkness
green-smelling and damp
and me the watcher, and me the breathing reveler
and her, of course, with the video camera

and up
and up
cold, harsher
tired feet at 4:57
broken silence, "When does the sun come up?"
I look over, "Not sure." Be quiet.
"I hope we don't miss it..." You are disturbing the
upward momentum
and something else

and up
with time to spare, the wind snapping my jacket
like a flag, banner of a conquering company
riders, knights, gleaming in the dark
princes? no, not the singing princes of the play
something deeper than that, like the roots of the mountain
thick and old, volcanic
now slumbering, but tomorrow
maybe, like Arthur
some day

out before us, water
lights glimmer
dark land, blanketted in forest
flowers, clover rippling in the witch-fingered wind

"Take a picture," she says
Be quiet. It's my job to say that
backstage
here? no
this is her glory
a square of chemical, a moment put to sleep eternally
never to awaken

brassy trumpet at the horizon
rim of a golden shield sending the clouds fleeing like sheep
stabs of light cutting the dark away in swaths and tatters

"Take a picture!"

and he is round over the rampart of the city
gleaming
and the horns echo out
ringing over heath and loch and crowned hill, resounding
the wind trilling counterpoint, faery dawning
and

but we were told to go together
always together
and she

is invisible in the sun, another tatter
washed out by the light, possessed
wheeling and dancing, mountain maiden
and I laugh
Arthur is sleeping, and Morganna dances on his throne

so I think
when we return, the path visible now
the gardens gay, archaic, stone arches and gnarled trees
more pictures, taken gladly now
before we descend into darkness again
backstage, behind the scenes, creeping ever out of the light
but I remember
"August 17th, 1998:
Watched the sun rise over Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, Scotland"

a little scrawl in the back of a notebook
sometimes I dream it


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