rumours fly from the peaks of mount Bidean nam Bian
from the high moors and the shores of lochs Tummel and Tay
the human spirit but sleeps
a deep silent slumber in a bed of lichen and lore
his life not stolen by the raven to return nevermore
He needs just a small kiss from his beloved truth
I raise my glass not to death but life
to days filled with gratitude and wonder
to dark nights of silence, love and laughter
then to watch a crystal dawn
as truth rises from the north west south-eastern
the allround corners of our minds
she draws strength from these long dead volcanoes
that now shoot rainbows built from wild imaginings
and her lover waits…
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