South Lochs

Old stones,
Ragged and ridged like the faces of old men
Worn and cracked, piebald patched
Watching from the hillside
Over still lochs and dark waters
Over empty crofts and quiet harbours
A fixed stare set immovable to the sky
A silent shout out of defiance
This is not an easy place to be, they say.
This place does not want us to be here, they say.
But it will take more years than these to wear us down.

Old stones
Older than the wind, older than the waves
Older than the land, older than the rain.
Older than God.


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