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Isle of Skye, Scotland
by KB Ballentine
Come to the Cuillins when gray drapes the horizon‐
rain tapering to mist that dimples fairy pools.
Streams rush over rocks where moss softens stone,
splashes of green on this dingy day.
Wind funnels arches and grottos, gorse sunning hazel scrub.
Marguerites nod in ragged grass, mountains brooding behind.
A feather of movement‐a flash then gone‐
and you step into frosty water,
a song sighing through the lea. An Orange-Tip lingers
over thistle, wings quivering with joy.