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The peaty burn trickles downward,
Flowing through tufts of maize colored grass;
Its water brown, yet sparkling clear
As it bounces over granite stones.
The air, chilled, brisk, as the wind howls
Through the glen, across the deep lochs,
Midnight blue and rippling with waves,
Washing against the reed-covered banks.
Yellow gorse, ferns green and feathery,
Grow among the bracken, matted and bent,
Calling to the burn, to drink its moisture,
Or provide a meal for a grazing sheep.
Salmon and trout splash in the small stream
Fighting their way against the rushing waters.
A deer, stopping for a drink, bends down,
Catches its reflection and darts away.
Sheep, hair long and hanging to the ground,
Nibble on thistles, purple and bursting
With feathery blooms, prickly stems,
And historical blood-stained past.
Crofts, whitewashed, thatched roofs,
Billow smoke, burning pieces of peat sod,
Carved from the hillside by hand,
Filled with sweet smells of bannocks.
Echoes from the past, cries of victory
And defeat, swords half buried
Beneath the rooted grasses and weeds,
Reminding of the valiant HIghland men.
Tartans, blue, red, green and yellow,
Hang from clotheslines, fresh and clean.
Goats bleating, ewes lambing,
Mint growing alongside leeks and cabbage.
Stories being told, past down through the years
Of great battles, kings, Robert the Bruce, bravery,
And of persecution, clans, noblemen,
Tyrants, and lovers of freedom.
The meadows of Scotland, home,
Rock covered, barren,
If they could only speak,
like the peaty burn that trickles downward. |
