Rills of roads go about
like the water that everywhere pours.

Hills, hinting of other lands, other people, eagles, shoulder sodden skies.
There’s a crack where sunshine leaks through,
deeps the already deep waters,
the waiting lochs.

Quiet passes between breezes,
a full quiet with songs to gather, lowing cattle to gather.
Footfalls of tourists toil -
seeking what? its soul? -
watched by yearling sheep too busy for metaphysics.

The island holds its secrets close.
Houses hide behind outcrops,
in forests, check their breath
as tourists click by,
as ships hunt,
as monks chant for converts.

Stones stand.
Vigil keep.
High peaks that might be fable
bestow fierce joy
that might be sadness
on spirits named only in Gaelic.
High glens hushed in heather.

To masons who made god of stone,
to visitors who gather pebbles in the rain,
the high peaks gift their violet voices.

Kj22sept09

Uisken, Mull