Breaking Dawn over Plockton Bay, West Coast of Scotland.
Poem.
Grey-blanket cloud of night cracks over the distant hills of Attadale and Killilan Forests.
Shafts of early morning sunlight lay their silver and gold carpets
across the rippling waters of Plockton Bay.
Yachts motionless, yet to stir.
Low tide reveals a host of skerries and islands, rock-pools and orange strands of inter-tidal seaweed.
Rocky, rugged heights of Creag an Duilisg plunge over a thousand feet to this sumptuous bay.
Swathes of Oak, Ash and Pine form a dense woodland back-cloth, clinging like Mountain-Goats, to the sheer, precipitous slopes.
No trains, this early, trundle along the bay to Kyle of Lochalsh,
a journey of breath-taking beauty and stunning views.
Few, yet, have risen to this soft morning light
and the promise of a glorious day.
But in this tranquil moment, my anticipation, quietly grows.
Breaking Dawn over Plockton Bay, West Coast of Scotland.
Poem.
Grey-blanket cloud of night cracks over the distant hills of Attadale and Killilan Forests.
Shafts of early morning sunlight lay their silver and gold carpets
across the rippling waters of Plockton Bay.
Yachts motionless, yet to stir.
Low tide reveals a host of skerries and islands, rock-pools and orange strands of inter-tidal seaweed.
Rocky, rugged heights of Creag an Duilisg plunge over a thousand feet to this sumptuous bay.
Swathes of Oak, Ash and Pine form a dense woodland back-cloth, clinging like Mountain-Goats, to the sheer, precipitous slopes.
No trains, this early, trundle along the bay to Kyle of Lochalsh,
a journey of breath-taking beauty and stunning views.
Few, yet, have risen to this soft morning light
and the promise of a glorious day.
But in this tranquil moment, my anticipation, quietly grows.