Caisteal Bharraich
Where once the Bishops of Caithness gave praise
my ruined tower still surveys
Ben Loyal, Ben Hope capped in morning haze;
commands the Kyle of Tongue whose golden blaze
of gorse and broom sweeps down the heathered braes,
land roamed by Clan Mackay who ruled the ways
until the Highland Clearances. On summer days
follow my steep and winding path to gaze
across this fertile strath where Cheviots graze.
But stay back from the edge lest with the craze
for awesome selfies you take a sideways
step; gusts and ghosts are always fierce up here.
Walking Blues
after Paul Simon
I wear my mother’s hiking boots
bought for a Himalayan trek,
my father’s dream come true
after retirement. At first
they wore their boots
around the house, graduated
to short walks, then daily
hikes across Sherrifmuir,
the leather nursed until soft
as baby rabbits almost
stepped on in the heather.
Their boots went to Nepal;
his found their stride, climbed
higher than them all, came back
eager to be off again;
hers were tired, consigned
to a cupboard. Now they
navigate across the chain
of Little Alps in southern France,
a spring in my step and diamonds
on the soles of my shoes.
Lead image: Ben Loyal © Rob Lovell