GLEN COE

Softly heaving hills,
Purpled with rampant Heather,
Tumble gently down
Into deep hidden valleys
Bottomed out by spongy bogs
Where a white-washed, thatch-roofed
Cottage stands in isolation.

Mystery floats through the depths
Which are shrouded with gray mist
Lying atop the lonesome cottage,
Drifting between the peaks, and
Settling onto the beds of
Coffee-black peat bogs.

Sheep dot the hills and valley,
seemingly untended and independent.
A wraith-like ghost of white-gray smoke
Rises from a weathered stone chimney.

Who lives here in this faerie land?
What manner of person dwells day and night
In this country of ancient Celts and dragons?
There are no bag-pipes playing
"Scotland the Brave" for camera-wielding tourists.
No yellow and red banner with the Lion Rampant
Hangs on the red front door.
No corner shack sells fish-n-chips and
Fried Haggis logs in grease-spotted paper.

But "Scotland the Brave" it is.
Bonny wee Scotland stands here.
And ancient bag-pipes can be heard
When the Highland winds blow just right.

© Copyright 2008 Mona Lisa