Coming Home To Kinlochewe
A poem
A poem
A dwelling for spirits, haunted by shadowed lochs,
overlooked by dark lowering hills
and silhouetted by stark tree limbs.
Wisps of milky froth, liberated by mischievous spirits,
pirouette across the valley and onto the glittered schist below,
as the paths by Loch Marie crackle and grumble
under the weight of this weary traveller,
and whisper, in fragrances of peat and crushed heather.
Amidst logs crackling like static,
a single malt is relished, a sweet rebellion against the cold.
Through the leaded panes, sullen sunsets,
now painted with familial murmurs,
sometimes force me to avert my gaze,
unwilling to bear the burden of judgment.