Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no. 161: Trochrey

On Torr Beag

One day I climbed a hill,
pushed against the moon,
watched the sun burst red
on iced slopes and peaks.
I breathed the sky – all of it.
I had to have the moment,
so I gripped the heather weave
and pulled it to me,
folding as it came,
careful not to move a rock,
not to spill a loch
or squeeze sheep in a fold.
Now and then
I look at that moment,
thumb back a corner,
glimpse the colour, feel the chill
of that early morning, the thrill
of glowing peaks above the cloud,
catching the days first light
while so many are still asleep.


Jon Plunkett

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