THE shadows paint their
patterns down the world.
A red sun flames and shivers and is gone;
and all the little stars
cast off their veils of cloud, and all the air
deepens and mellows to a slumbrous blue.
Shining and cool,
the rain seeps softly through the swaying trees;
the sleepless burn
tumbles in swift cascades of liquid light
where dark and furry ferns
hang in the thunderous chasms of the gorge.
Across the heather-stems,
the high-thin, hollow fluting of the wind
echoes and stills and echoes yet again.
And it is night, and all the fair green glen
is hushed and lost beneath an ancient spell.
It has not changed, this land that once she knew;
and who shall say but Deirdre lives again
in the slow rhythm of a silver birch, or where
the mist trails, like a woman in soft robes
laying her cool white hands
lingeringly on the shoulders of the hills…
Glen Etive and the peaks behind Dalness with
entrance to Lairig Gartain Pass to Glen Coe