Slicing the trout-speckled slipsteam,
over the dark silver of Veyatie,
today, a restless and turgid loch –
fifteen fathoms of darken dream.
Angry clouds choke Cul Mor;
tomb mountain on the thunder path,
the West wind troubles the white birch hills,
while green waves gash the bracken shore.
I, pilgrim, midge-eaten, soaked to the bone,
gliding a rain-pocked loch (Ice-Age born),
poet’s road to the true hard North;
below, strange fish move, deep and alone.