Day Zero
ON THE TRAIN NORTH
The sheep are grazing in the green streaks
Between white bands of snow.
England in March is friendly to ice
And anything woolly enough to survive.
MILNGAVIE
The bite in the air is the healthy kind;
Scotland is not for the weak.
With highlands ahead and the tame world behind,
We pause on the threshold
And let the Way speak.
Day One
NEAR GARTNESS
White seagulls and black crows
Are sharing this field together
In a king of scavengers’ truce
Or a parable of land and sea.
Day Two
THE WALKER
Into the silence of the Scottish morning
The walker drops; he is silent too.
Between fields, between old stone walls,
Between sleeping centuries, he wends his way;
And when he has passed, no trace of him remains
On a landscape etched forever in his heart.
SCOTTISH MARCH
There’s ice in the burns, but there’s buds on the trees;
Winter in the soil; spring on the breeze.
ABOVE LOCH LOMOND
The moss-grown birches
Are a poem in green and white -
A poem set to music
By the evening light.
THE MIRACLE OF WALKING
The same basic procedure
That takes you from room to room
Can take you a hundred miles
If you simply refuse to stop.
ROWARDENNAN
Well, here I am in a place again,
Like last time and the time before,
With various things within my ken,
Some indoor, some out-of-door;
And here I am in a human mind,
With time enough to look around,
As present a man as you may find
Between the sky and the grateful ground.
Day Three
LOCH LOMOND, PART I
Already the afternoon light
Is spinning the air into gold;
Loch Lomond is bearded with shadow
And braced by a song of old.
LOCH LOMOND, PART II
Now the fog falls, and the ghosts are out:
Rob Roy, the Wallace, the Bruce, the Prince -
Proud men, but men, full of sin and doubt;
And who’s seen the like of ‘em since?
DROVERS’ ROADS
Walking on old drovers’ roads
And trying to imagine driving cattle down them
Is a helpful reminder, if you needed one,
Of just how insane the past really was.
FALLEN TREE (NEAR ARDLEISH)
Uprooting, the tree uprooted a stone;
They still cling together, never alone.
HEATHEN’S PRAYER
The air is cold, but the sun is warm;
By night the windows keep out the storm;
If God’s in heaven, then so be it;
Down here the road winds, and the fire is lit.
INVERARNAN
Snow greeted us at the Drover’s -
A brief squall to remind us
Why inns were built in the first place.
Day Four
HIGHLAND BLESSING
Porridge at morning, whisky at night;
Sun’s on the heather; everything’s right.
ROB ROY’S CAVE
They say he stopped here, but it may have been elsewhere;
It may have been someone else entirely.
And there was where
He kept his prisoners -
Or, just as likely, never did.
The legend, you see, outpaces the man,
(Though no man could in the man’s own prime),
And the world will never forget Rob Roy
As long as it loves to tell a tale.
These hills are still dotted with his footsteps;
His laughter still comes on the wind;
And men are still chasing him through the Highlands,
Though he stopped running long ago.
PARABLE
Life is like the West Highland Way;
It’s long, it’s short; it’s hard, it’s not that hard,
And you should never forget to take in the scenery -
But also, you have somewhere to be.
MY LEFT FOOT
My left foot is killing me,
Or vice versa,
But we’re stuck with each other,
At least until Fort William.
WALKER’S MANTRA
At noon there will be tea and shortbread,
Because this is a just and good world.
NEEDS MUST
What we must do, we do;
It isn’t the will that finds the way.
Necessity itself takes up the burden,
And makes of our day, her day.
JAMIES
A man with my father’s name gave me a thermos;
Jamies are always looking after me.
VARIETY
Variety is the meat of life;
Appreciation is the spice.
PURPOSE
If you wonder why you’re walking,
You’re already lost,
Unless you know the answer
Is to get to the next stop.
SHEEP FIELDS (ABOVE CRIANLARICH)
I was chased by a cow once
In Switzerland,
So forgive me if I’m not
Complacent around sheep.
NORTHERN ICE
Walking into winter
As winter turns to spring
Is a bit like growing younger
And still aging.
CALEDONIAN FOREST
The silence of an old forest
Is like the silence between the stars:
A cold and alien silence -
And, somehow, welcoming.
CALEDONIAN FOREST, PART II
The moss covers everything,
Like the slow-motion apocalypse
Of some long-forgotten culture
Whose greatest fear was moss.
STRATHFILLAN
With a name like Strathfillan,
It’s got to be good.
IS THIS A POEM?
Part of me cares what mountain I’m looking at;
Part of me doesn’t.
Is that a poem?
I can’t tell anymore.
Day Five
TYNDRUM
I wake up to a white world,
A Continental breakfast,
And a path unfurling through the snowy mist,
Laid out by men long dead
For me alone.
LATE WINTER
The moss on the trees looks like blossom,
Incongruous in the snow.
FUNGO
I worried about Fungo,
Whom I met on the trail,
Who was camping out in weather
That froze me halfway to the pub.
Then I remembered he told me
He did Nepal in the off-season,
And I don’t think even the Highlands
Can kill a man like that.
RANNOCH MOOR
When crossing Rannoch Moor,
Be sure to bring a stout heart,
A love for desolate beauty,
And a chicken club sandwich.
THE RULES
If you don’t use the word “desolate”
In describing Rannoch Moor,
The Scottish police arrest you
And feed you haggis till you confess.
PARADOX
The burns rush on at a breakneck pace
While taking every detour they can.
TWO GERMAN GIRLS I MET ON THE TRAIL
I swear to God their names
Were Lucie and Ricarda.
I swear to God
They didn’t get the joke.
AN OLD SAYING
If you don’t like the weather in Scotland,
That’s okay,
Because the weather doesn’t like you either.
Day Six
KINGSHOUSE
The fireside means little
Unless you’ve been out in the snow -
Pelted and shivering, dreaming of stew
And the place you’re giving a meaning to.
GLEN COE
The path rises, the burn falls -
Two parallel scars
On the face of the weeping hill.
THE GLEN COE MASSACRE
The name of Campbell
Is a blot on history -
And not just because
Of their mediocre soup.
TRAIL NYMPH
She had a smile that forgave all sins
And made you want to commit some more.
SYMBOL
The national animal of Scotland
Is the unicorn,
Because of the Scots’ affinity for lost causes,
Or maybe from some instinctive knowledge
That anything really good is rare.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The Samoans called him “Tusitala” -
“Teller of tales” -
Which is not only a perfect description
But the best thing a man can be.
Day Seven
TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY
Even Robert the Bruce,
When he knew himself defeated,
Threw his sword in a pond -
And he was a great man.
I’m not Robert the Bruce,
And I don’t have a sword,
But I’m taking the bus to Fort William,
Because I do know when I’m beat.
SCENERY
The snow is just as lovely
Through the bus windows;
It softens the disappointment
As it softens the world.
FORT WILLIAM
I took a bus through a blizzard
Into a sunlit bay.
The day didn’t go as I planned it -
But why should I blame the day?
Bonus Poems (Day Eight)
WHITE CEILING
The snowline is never far above you;
The Highland villages are ducking their heads,
Trying to keep winter out of their caps
Till April comes to sweep it clean away.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, PART II
His grandfather built lighthouses,
And so, if you think about it,
Did he.
