I went to look up George Mackay Brown (whom I have yet to discover), and found out that he and I share a birthday. Only, he was born many decades before I was.

Happy very early birthday! I discovered him last night through "John Barleycorn," which nineweaving kindly shared with me. This afternoon I found the notes and texts for a recent choral piece called The Kestrel Road, drawn from his poetry ("The poems are highly evocative of Orkney life, history and folklore, with shepherds, crofters, fisher folk, a laird, a scarecrow King Barleycorn, and the timeless figure of Ikey the Tinker, who passes through many of Brown's poems, seemingly linking past and present. According to Max, the music is suggestive of the 'elusive land and seascapes' of the islands and is much influenced by the local folk music"), and fell in love:

III. Ikey crosses the Ward Hill to the Spanish Wreck

Because of the Spanish wreck I tackled the hill.
I heard of the apples,
Wine kegs, mermaids, green silk bale upon bale.

My belly hollowed with hunger on the hill.
From Black Meg's patch
I borrowed a chicken and a curl or two of kale.

We both wore patches, me and that harvest hill.
Past kirk and croft,
Past school and smithy I went, past manse and mill.

On the black height of the hill
I lay like a god.
Far below the crofters came and went, and suffered, and did my will.

I wrung a rabbit and fire from the flank of the hill.
In slow dark circles
Another robber of barrows slouched, the kestrel.

Corn and nets on the downslope of the hill.
The girl at Reumin
Called off her dog, poured me a bowl of ale.

I found no silk or brandy. A bit of sail
Covered a shape at the rock.
Round it the women set up their soundless wail.

You see why I need more.

Bilocation. That's the power you need.

Dude. Yeah. Or something quantum mechanical.