The Cullin hills.

The Cullin Hills.

 

Over there are the Glens,

Bathed in shadow.

They rise high above the loch.

Mountainous terrain.

A maze of water,

Rushing through, down the land.

 

The Mountains rise so high,

You could walk right up to heaven.

Patches of Sunlight,

God’s own highlighter.

And a silence so loud,

You hear the wind change.

Pure, Peace.

 

The Wind whips my face,

And leaves behind it’s icy sting.

Hills dashed and dotted,

With splashes of white

Sheep galore.

 

I feel the sun,

On my Island weathered face.

Such freedom.

Running across the wide expanse,

Under the Cullin Ridge.

 

I long to stay here,

At the gateway to Heaven.

Remote, Isolated, Free.

My private Isle.

My Skye,

An Island in the clouds.

I may leave, but here my heart will remain.