At Glencoe,
Where in centuries past,
Blood ran red on the snow,
Now wrapped in the quietude of summer.

The highland ridges rise over layers,
And sprawl into distant mountains,
Along the grim valley,
Ploughed by ancient giants.

The wanderer finds solace
At a bubbling creek,
Among the jagged rocks;
On each side, they ***** down,
Over shadows of green and brown

A humid chill blankets the sky.
The singing of birds is absent from this place.
The thistle grows where it wants,
And moss sprouts from among the crags.

All corners reflect an apparent emptiness,
Hiding any trace of human touch,
But the winding valley speaks in its own way,
And tells a story of desolation.

Alone in these remote wilds,
The wind carries away the echoes of forgotten ghosts
To the heathered isles of the west,
Or eastward, to the lowland dwellings.

But no reply is heard.
The steep walls silence their voices,
Their cries float eternally over the shady glen.