The unblinking eye

The unblinking eye
its colour
reflected
from above

Fringed with
the brown and yellow
of winter
the grey of rock

Rippled by
the uncaring wind
blowing from
far away

Unmoving
the heathery knolls
and distant valley
surrounds it

They were
my country
that winter long ago
the lochans of the moor

Coire Geurad

Calmly the waters curve away
overshadowed by tall hills
wavelets lapping at the shores
where peat overhangs the water

Endless pale blue skies
arch over the distant scene
wisps of ephemeral cloud
imperceptably drape the dome of sky

The river babbles over rocks
as it flows its short course
down from one loch
into another

Barely cresting the mountain tops
themselves under a veil of snow
the sun tracks its solstice course
to disappear within seven hours

Lumps of rocks on Coltreasal
seemingly in a haphazard heap
speak of lives long since gone
forgotten summers, a distant echo

They were happy there, long moons ago
Preparing for hard winters
In the bounty of summer
on the shores of Coire Geurad

Looking north

Don't think I don't think back
when I was looking out over water
but facing north
rather than south

The long water west
ending below far-off Roineabhal
The townships across the loch
near, but still so far

Walking the roads at dusk
the distant mountains in white
freezing cold air blown in
as lit up from the east

Limpid depthless mirrors
named in a to me yet foreign tongue
scattered amidst countless hillocks
interspersed by peaty streams

At the end of the road
stands a small memorial tower
remembering a struggle for land
which remains unforthcoming

But little stirs amidst the moors
Only remain those that went on ahead
Their final resting place by the sea
which was, or took, their life

Don't think I have forgotten
the lure of those winter moors
under the pale light
of the short solstice day

Langabhat

A lone trail
angles up by the stream
steeply
up into the mountains

Leading nowhere
ending nowhere
except by the shore
of the lonely loch

It carries those
who come for sport
to carry back meat
what once was a stag

It carries others
who fish upon the loch
overshadowed
by the montains

The long water
born of streams
sourced high in the hills
stretching to near Ròineabhal

Finally to cascade
down to the sea
near the old circle
of standing stones

But Langabhat
At the heart of the island
crowned by the mighty Harris hills
continues to hold me captive