Whispers of the Highlands

Where heather spills on granite hills,

And skies stretch wild and wide,

The wind hums low through glens below,

Where silver lochs still hide.

The stags stand proud on ridges high,

Their breath a ghost in dawn,

While streams like threads of molten glass

Through moss and shadow run.

The pines lean close in whispered talk,

Of winters fierce and long,

Yet every spring the curlew calls

Her haunting, lilting song.

Mist drapes the crags in veils of pearl,

The air tastes sharp and clear,

And every stone, and every path,

Holds centuries held dear.

Oh Highlands, wild and ancient heart,

Your beauty will not fade,

For in each soul that walks your slopes,

A piece of you is laid.