It’s hard to say
what’s mountain or sky
after miles of road
through hills
with mouths of snow.
But headlights
hold tarmac,
a lit cocoon
of single track
beaming forward,
just enough –
all the winter dark of it.
Sgurr an Fhidhleir, Cul Beag, Beinn an Eoin.
And even if I can’t see
what’s out there
in the winding,
roar of metal bridge
marks distance
and lights names –
necklace of hill, loch, river
fastened to memory.
Lurgainn, Bad a’ Ghaill, Oscaig.
Tunnels of birch
shining wet,
snipe veering
off and out,
silver to black,
like the road itself,
the way an eye of a stag
slips into nothing.
Ditches and
scattered sheep,
heads dumb in the rain,
rushes blowing low
and trickling mosses –
all those endless hours
of summer light and growing.
Tormentil, birdsfoot trefoil, bog asphodel.
And downhill,
the quiet valley,
a red roof
clasped to the hill.
Shape of mountain,
hush of burn,
murmur of rowan,
and flicker of gate –
all I need to know
this February night.
