The Bothy

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It has occurred to me lately that some nonsense words sound so much like real words that they must in a sense be words-in-waiting. At the same time, the sound of some words when used in a particular context just feel so appropriate that their legitimacy or proper usage must bow to artistic licence.

 Basically, if the line sounds right who gives a flying frapsnack whether you're using the right words, or real words at all?

The Bothy


Morning scrintles tithe-dipped fingers
On the burly-hintled bothy. 
Old Man Alder curdled gently
To his wizened wicker crown.
On the slope the gloam was girdled,
Gathered up and set to gleaming
Till it fizzed and fairly shrakened,
Hence to feathered Light-Me-Down.

All at once the furtive snippets
Burst alive from every pocket,
Snackering their needlepoint
And chittering their glee.
Foggy-fisted fields of mosters 
Stir up slowly, breaking dewdrops. 
Antler-tips and drips of dusk
Come steaming in their thrum.

Through the crackling calm the wind blows,
Glenning up the vale to willow
Softly, gurgling in the copses,
Tattering the thatch.
Racing on to skim the creek
And dappling on the alder branches,
Piping tuneless hurdy-gurdies
To the grassy swatch.

Misty skeins are coalescing
As they bunch their pillowed tendrils,
Rising to Aurora
As they greet the fabled dawn.
On the crest, oh glory skirling!
All in gold the bothy bathing,
Humble hunker rooted
In the valley's idyll arms.

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