arrochar alps

by Alice Hill-Woods

my calves still ache
from traversing
               that gorgeous, ballooning

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
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.