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Unto The Hills

A RED fox on a red hill,
crouched in the grass,
listens with ears pricked to the shrill
sounds of the earth. Aeons pass.

Dim shapes, like shadows flitting in a glass,
dance in the mirror of the mountain pool;
and music cool
quivers and dies along the echoing pass.

O music light, elusive as the dawn,
on the wind's breath borne --
blended and lost where amber water flows;
into cold air,
echoing -- where?

The earth is still,
and no-one knows
but a red fox on a red hill
where the grey grass blows…

"Sunrise," Caolais Scalpay, Isle of Skye

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