Hills of Scotland

Rays of warmth caress the thick green of the highland mountains;
Stout and noble, they thrust from the emerald sea
In crags and turrets and luscious rolling hills.
Wrought with life, of every shape and form,
From the soft blades of jade colored grass,
To the dense groves of strong antiquated trees,
From the lowly working ant, to the regal Highland Clans.

Oh, the land of the Scottish heart -
Mine own is envious green for you;
To sift my fingers through the nurturing soil,
Black as onyx, moist and cool -
the smell of Mother Nature herself!

To feel the heat of the Scottish sun
When he hides not behind the clouds so thick,
As I, beneath, dance barefoot in it’s cascading rain -
A fresh, beauteous waterfall, shimmering all about.
To lay my body upon the altar of the standing stones -
Reveling in the earthy powers that swirl and pulse.

To hear the sounds of the majestic bagpipes
As they sing with the pride of the ancient, enduring clans;
To immerse myself in the melody of a Gaelic reverie,
Straining voices that speak of love and war, of land and sea.
How I wish my heart to see such sights, to hear such sounds,

To belong.
I await my soul there, in the Highlands of the Scottish Isle.