THE patched and tattered garments of
the hills
Have clothed my heart in beauty.
Proudly now
I wear the gorse's gold, and flaunt the red
Ribbons of rowan in the wanton wind.
The hurrying streams
Are silver sandals for my questing feet.
And, all day long, the forests, like a shawl,
Cover the naked places of my soul.
The threadbare-gypsy garments of the hills
Are folded round my heart.
Serenely now
I don my cloak of heather, warm and brown
And darned with threads of purple as of old. The shadows
cool Seep softly down the glen. . . .
And, all night through,
In peace, I lie and dream between my rough
Blankets of bracken, ’neath remembered stars.
(Reprinted by kind permission of Chambers's Journal)
