Dalwhinnie - Dail Chuinnidh
Leaving Dalwhinnie station,
I notice the view.
It has run out of trees.
The earth has run out of grass.
The soil (like me) has run out of a reason to stay.
Outside, the clouds become too heavy
to contain themselves.
I trace a silver snail trail of raindrops
as it clings to the greasy window.
Inside, a trolley sells steaming comfort
to sustain the busy-being-busy.
Their mission is to keep in touch with the real world
(however far away they find themselves).
My ticket holds no clues.
Who would want to pause here
and hope if they changed direction
(in these mountains)
they would be heading to greener pastures?
Note: Dalwhinnie was a meeting place of ancient cattle drovers’ routes through the mountains.
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