I want to walk quiet
My feet swishing through dewy gale
In a distant glen
Where the budding birches shimmer
Along a busy burn
And an early eagle spins the world
On a wing’s turn
Heaven to me is a curlew morning
In the sun-strong hills.
There stiffened senses can stretch
And a lark-heart soar,
There, some start to salvation,
Away from the claustrophobic World
And its iron-studded doors.
Touch old earth for it yields new dawns.
Laugh like a running child.
No wonder Christ was led to a mountain top
And offered the world free.
I wouldn’t have it either, but
It, alas, has me.
The Last Hundred Munroes, Hamish Brown
