Rannoch – this impossible place.

Water juggles over rock, through trees, emptying into the moor to join the pooling, trickling, lapping, bubbling bog. My trainers are sucked from my feet, already sodden, shrivelled. The train pulls into the station, a leap across the burn, pink pebbles, embroidered silver lichen. Black velvet pools of peat smell of time, its scent drifts across this impossible place. Flinty, sharpening winds usher clouds, sift icing rain. The mountains disappear. All that remains is the moss beneath my feet, sinking slowly. Above, the sky considers its options, decides to lay low for now at least. Small birds sing their song across the moor. I am gone.