The drovers road
ran through this moor,
stone people in their days.
Between times, raiders from
the west
just walked the beef away.
Railways came to check the lie,
on mattresses of wood and roots.
Took sleep on earth and ash.
Sheep in heavy jumpers
came aboard the train,
in a festive holiday mood
bound once, Firth of Moray.
When glaciers departed
the land breathed a relief
like proven bread raised
on bubbles of yeast.
At black woods edge
on Rannock Moor
the heart stone marked
the way, glacial erratic.
Near there I saw a heron
take a rest from flight.
A heart is mended
in a dream this Isles way.
© Dai Fry 23rd April 2020