Waking Grok

This black coffee tastes good.

It warms my hands on the outside and my stomach on the inside.

Though it is almost May, the weather here is still un-seasonally cold, and today, instead of the recent blue skies, a translucent grey is hanging over Campbeltown. A short while ago I walked through that veiling mist to the bus stop. My wife is on her way to visit relatives in the Netherlands.

Walking home, I see Grok, the giant who lies across the plateau summit of Beinn Ghuilean. He is shrouded in that same light. Like a bride in waiting, who doesn’t quite feel confident enough to be seen clearly.

I will always love Grok though. I hope someday to wake him from his slumber. In fact, I call my exercise routines Waking Grok. He symbolises to me the primal man inside, who is fighting to get out of my modern 21st Century skin.

There is no desperate reason today for me to move away from my computer, apart from the Siren Light Lure behind the open door of The Refrigerator. No impending need to hunt. Everything to hand.

But Grok keeps me moving. Keeps me healthy. And in truth, keeps me alive. He may be hidden by mist, and deep in slumber, but I am grateful that he exists.