Bleach and black water patch the hillside –
burnt heather beside the path,
which winds aimlessly away from the soldiers’ bridge
beneath which we sheltered
There are no fences here:
the real country keeps hold,
hiding its destinations
In a fold of the ridge
rare trees cluster like a mother’s arms
around some small secret,
and the breeze picks up
We come like curlews from a graveyard full of words,
but these moors have little to say:
though they have taken memories into their mouths,
they simply listen
We used to ford this stream easily:
now we drop a stone into the water but decide to wait,
catching our breath before
the steep climb back to the road
– a poem of the Highlands, specifically the wild country near Corgarff