my calves still ache
from traversing
that gorgeous, ballooning
pregnant
munro
beinn narnain with her tufts
of sheep
opal curls slick from rain
running from the threat of
water breaking
beneath that storm
cruach nam miseag and we
were all
alone
bitten and bruised
vowing to never return
to the city –
the craggy laughs and the
warm fern,
which you warned me about
still, we brushed through
amongst foxglove and pine,
the trodden thistles dying
all purple and viridian.