On Liathach
May 2001
Standing at ease between the lip
of the cliff and a flank of unforgiving green,
the menfolk, before the chaos of the screes
turn once to the discernment of the north
to the Erse yielding to the Norse
names of all the hills they know
fold after fold, gathered and quietly
standing together in the evening fank.
And each one in each rank has a name
and is named and rolled round the horizon
on the lips of her followers and she is named
again and again in the steel clearness
at the end of the day.
In blue declining without end
their fading lines are copies of
the letter that we never send
that is entirely about love.