Skirting the hills between highland lochs
through the wild Scotch mist, a muted cloth;
a weave no clan can claim to hold
and yet it belongs to the fair attuned.
The crouching heather weaves its course;
a soft purple haze, tethered and taught
whilst rusting bracken, trampled and flattened
repeats the pattern of this pre Jacobite plaid.
Naked streams like invisible seams
thread themselves through a deeper green
where outlaws roamed and love ran deep,
laced into the loam, their secrets seep.
Tight lush lines and serrated pine tops
fray the borrowed light above this unhemmed cloth;
sylvan green textured with lichen
softened by moss now intersecting
a place where dryads and urisks dwell
their mischief pleated across the fells
where Children of the Mist ran daring raids;
their sobriquet spun in the weaver’s frame.
Spread out before me this ancient plaid
where yarns of lore and legend are laid
from lowland hills to highland glens
the past is bound in nature’s blend.
Among the brutal beauty of the highland lochs,
I’ll wrap my heart in Gaia’s cloth.