So, this wild and coarse heather,
Gorse and twisted spine,
This mist of mine that blankets forever,
The birthing hare can deliver,
When apple flower casts its spell.
Ghostly echo swings from the crag,
As ivy and bracken upon clothing snag,
Collecting peace from the hill,
Perhaps tears spill but for joy.
The lights are bright for some,
The knots can be loosened but,
Such moonlight, such stars,
Forever mirrored upon your heart,
And somewhere softly sings a song,
Eternally long and with beauty,
In the realm of infinity,
As below so above,
Said the mountain in its dream,
Awake within its realm it seems,
Yet still in our eyes asleep.
Rowan Blair Colver