Quiraing Tree, Isle of Skye.
The Quiraing Tree
Gnarled, grasping broken old knuckles
Cling desperately to the broken, tumbledown earth,
Dug deep into the vertiginous, mossy precipice
That is the the edge of life, yet home and hearth.
To live balanced, precariously, between life and death,
With nothing below but the end of the world,
The wind chuckles its’ way through outstretched fingers,
And the molten sunlight is held by fingers curled.
The boldest gales, the fiercest rain,
Matter little and less than the steepest plummet,
To the ever-vigilant silent guardian,
Who stands atop the Quiraing summit.
He sees the land of the fairy glen,
He’s seen the fragile, pink gleam of every sunrise,
He stands sentinel for the forgotten land,
And smiles into the last light of the Skye.