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Unto The Hills
Hour of Desolation

DIES the sun
dreamily down in the quiet west.
Shadows run
over the glen like tender fingers
soothing to sleep the light that lingers,
while Echo stills among the hills
her note of sweet unrest.

Creeps the dusk.
The white moths flutter across the peat,
and the husk
of life is an empty, broken thing --
a folding of hands, a drooping wing,
a closing of eyes where colour dies
with Day's departing feet.

Comes the night:
sky without stars, spacious and still;
land without light.
And the glen is a waste where dead trees keep
watch for the dawn, while shadowy sheep
patiently browse, huddle and drowse
dimly upon the hill.

Rannoch Moor, view from Ben Achallader to the peaks of the Black Mount.
The Nevis Range visible on the horizon

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