I dream the ancient highlands, those rugged distant peaks,
the chilly sighing river-wash flowing through the sprawling trees;
of craggy grove-capped heights, and sullen, mist-wreathed glens,
a silent longing swells the heart, the yearning melody;
as climbing daunting stony towers wrought from wind-hewn rock,
and iron shards and broken years a legacy laments;
that spectral, weathered home.
I see those sacred highlands, the greying cairns that speak,
the fens and boggy mires trod by none but ghostly, fading feet;
of withering hail and gentle clouds, sunlight bereft of heat;
as winding threads of aeons past and sundered futures spent,
and stirring coronachs that onward echo whence inscribed on timeless stone;
a final, sombre tome.