“Louise Love to Climb the Summit…” N. C. Wyeth, 1907, WikiArt.

How many hills does an island make, streams
And pasturelands? It’s not what’s underfoot,
But what sings within my heart, fair isles of
Seas and skies. Melodies of rock and water,
Rambling verses freely flowing, highlands to
Ocean waves. “Do you know words of this
Land?” I asked aloud, arms out-spread to
Seabirds soaring overhead. “What secrets
Does it share?” “Listen to rivers roaring,
Rhythm of hoofbeats, thistle pricked wind,
Ancient stories dwell with.”

Flame heart-alighted, hair undone, pranced
I stone-to-stone, no one near, warming sun
Upon pale breasts, blood stirred, quickening
Pulse, words ushered forth, frolicking my
Brain. O! Thundering storm! In morning mist,
Island ancestors marched forth, songs they
Knew, memorized, spirits reaching past
Mortal graves. “Standing stones, roaring fires,
Sun and moon, magic spells swirling all
Round, keep close mysteries, romance.”

Was I dancing with Celtic dead, or they with
Me? Every muscle, bone to music swayed,
They took to rolling hills and seas, words
Echoing till time-ear faded, disappeared.
How many hills does an island make? One
Grassy rock from water protruding, outer
Hebridean crofting cottages, for some alien
Place, too far-flung, beyond eye’s reach.
There, my soul sings, melodies marrow-
Deep. Wake up! Fair isles I sing of thee.

Thanks for reading. 

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