"Tha gaol agam ort."
Desolate moonscape grabs my heart,
matching my mood. It starts
to rain, the mist descending on
stark, bare mountains, hidden, pretending
they don't exist.
Breaking sun insists
they stand their ground to the eagle's sound,
Reflected in lochs, so still, as if ancient glaciers fill,
my heart, lifted by a lamb's faint cry,
and a hint of a blue Hebridean sky.
Mine
