Wester Ross

Stone and rock
Boulder and pebble,
Water and stone,
Heather and stone,
Heather and water
And the bog cotton that is not for weaving.

Peats uncut
And the orange moss
Under sharp rush
And spiked deer-grass,
Under tough myrtle
And thin blue milkwort,
And ever, ever,
The silver shining
Of the bog cotton that is not flowers.

The stones drop
From the height of the bens,
In the low houses
Of the dead crofters
The rafters drop,
And the turf roof:
Stone after stone
The walls are dropping,
And the bog creeps nearer
With the bog cotton for the fairies’ flag.