#scottishhighlands - Hello Poetry

I came here to clear my head— or at least… that’s what I told myself. The Cairngorm Mountains don’t ask questions though— they just stand there… like they’ve already heard it all before. And maybe they have. Because up here— everything feels older than me. Older than my worries, older than my mistakes, older than the things I can’t quite let go of. The peaks don’t rush. They don’t chase anything. They just rise— slow, stubborn, certain— like they’ve made peace with being exactly what they are. And I’m walking— boots crunching through gravel and frost, breath hanging in the air like unfinished thoughts— trying to figure out how to do the same. There’s a kind of silence up here… but it’s not empty. It hums. Wind brushing past my ears like it’s trying to say something— like it’s been saying it for thousands of years and I’ve only just turned up to listen. And then— I swear— I catch movement on the ridge. Not fear. Not danger. Just… something unexpected. A man— full kilt, wild grin, spinning like the mountain gave him music only he could hear. Boots stamping, arms wide, laughing into the wind like it belonged to him. And for a second— I forget everything heavy. Because how can you carry weight when someone’s dancing on the edge of the sky? Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the mountains aren’t just about solitude. Maybe they’re about release. About letting go of the version of you that needed answers— and becoming the one who can just… stand there, breathe it in, and laugh at the sheer madness of being alive. Below me, rivers carve their way through the land— not asking permission, not checking the map— just moving forward because that’s what they do. And I realise… maybe I’ve been trying too hard to control the path instead of just walking it. Up here— nothing fights the wind. It bends. It shifts. It survives. Even the mountains— as solid as they seem— are changing, slowly, quietly, over time. And somehow… that doesn’t make them weaker. It makes them eternal. Now, I stand here— between sky and stone, between who I was and who I might become— and for the first time in a while… I don’t feel lost. I feel small. I feel free. And somewhere— on a distant ridge— that kilted stranger is still dancing, like joy is the only thing worth carrying. And maybe— just maybe— he’s right.

0

Mar 21

Mar 21, 2026 at 11:04 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

Up There, the Mountains Speak

I came here to clear my head— or at least… that’s what I told myself. The Cairngorm Mountains don’t ask questions though— they just stand there… like they’ve already heard it all before. And maybe they have. Because up here— everything feels older than me. Older than my worries, older than my mistakes, older than the things I can’t quite let go of. The peaks don’t rush. They don’t chase anything. They just rise— slow, stubborn, certain— like they’ve made peace with being exactly what they are. And I’m walking— boots crunching through gravel and frost, breath hanging in the air like unfinished thoughts— trying to figure out how to do the same. There’s a kind of silence up here… but it’s not empty. It hums. Wind brushing past my ears like it’s trying to say something— like it’s been saying it for thousands of years and I’ve only just turned up to listen. And then— I swear— I catch movement on the ridge. Not fear. Not danger. Just… something unexpected. A man— full kilt, wild grin, spinning like the mountain gave him music only he could hear. Boots stamping, arms wide, laughing into the wind like it belonged to him. And for a second— I forget everything heavy. Because how can you carry weight when someone’s dancing on the edge of the sky? Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the mountains aren’t just about solitude. Maybe they’re about release. About letting go of the version of you that needed answers— and becoming the one who can just… stand there, breathe it in, and laugh at the sheer madness of being alive. Below me, rivers carve their way through the land— not asking permission, not checking the map— just moving forward because that’s what they do. And I realise… maybe I’ve been trying too hard to control the path instead of just walking it. Up here— nothing fights the wind. It bends. It shifts. It survives. Even the mountains— as solid as they seem— are changing, slowly, quietly, over time. And somehow… that doesn’t make them weaker. It makes them eternal. Now, I stand here— between sky and stone, between who I was and who I might become— and for the first time in a while… I don’t feel lost. I feel small. I feel free. And somewhere— on a distant ridge— that kilted stranger is still dancing, like joy is the only thing worth carrying. And maybe— just maybe— he’s right.

100

A jewel among mountains, this loch’s grand embrace Reflects scenic wonders with flawless grace. Its surface dances with silver moonlight, A captivating scene in the hush of night. Majestic mountains stand tall all around, Their peaks kissed by mist, as if they are crowned. They guard the loch with their ancient power, Embracing Loch Ness, hour after hour.

0

Feb 9

Feb 9, 2026 at 3:36 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

Where Am I

A jewel among mountains, this loch’s grand embrace Reflects scenic wonders with flawless grace. Its surface dances with silver moonlight, A captivating scene in the hush of night. Majestic mountains stand tall all around, Their peaks kissed by mist, as if they are crowned. They guard the loch with their ancient power, Embracing Loch Ness, hour after hour.

8

A light is struck in highland heights, and the vista ***** in whispy smoke. Tire-track clouds distort, tickled by the fleet embrace of such a fickle vapour. I pollute clean air, and lungs, with my crime. But at the cusp of mountain and mist I contemplate home, and how I do not miss it. Not a bit. My tongue and senses sear, and I, at least, am unclouded.

0

Jul 15, 2025

Jul 15, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC

firemind

Scotland

A light is struck in highland heights, and the vista ***** in whispy smoke. Tire-track clouds distort, tickled by the fleet embrace of such a fickle vapour. I pollute clean air, and lungs, with my crime. But at the cusp of mountain and mist I contemplate home, and how I do not miss it. Not a bit. My tongue and senses sear, and I, at least, am unclouded.

31