Daffodils flowering in the verge. A thrush sings for me from a hawthorn, it would fill anyone’s heart. The sky is full of birdsong this morning and a woodpecker thrums in the wood. I meet a walker and we stop for a chat, share stories of ourselves. I am told to pop in any time I am passing. Swans on the loch, a ploughed field. The softest blue sky and a warm sun.
Rock, water, fissure.
Snow water trickles, pools, slips down in search of more level ground. Two climbers in red jackets belay, traverse, make a pitch for the summit. A pair of golden eagles circle still higher, watch the movements below.
A damp mist shutters the gap between the hills, stamping down hard against the sodden bog. Whole cliffs of rock disappear, a simple sleight of hand. Lost. Into the silence a pithy, pinched wind comes, trembling the heather, breathing sun across the western flank pulling the hill back from the brink.