On Torr Beag
One day I climbed a hill,
pushed against the moon,
watched the sun burst red
on iced slopes and peaks.
I breathed the sky – all of it.
I had to have the moment,
so I gripped the heather weave
and pulled it to me,
folding as it came,
careful not to move a rock,
not to spill a loch
or squeeze sheep in a fold.
Now and then
I look at that moment,
thumb back a corner,
glimpse the colour, feel the chill
of that early morning, the thrill
of glowing peaks above the cloud,
catching the days first light
while so many are still asleep.
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