Pass Through the Cuillin of Skye (Walk No. 3)

 

This single line which marks a map:

A trail a single footstep wide.

And human understanding wanes

A single yard on either side.

 

The Viking sea laid at my back:

A highway through the ancient isles.

Ahead a gale and mountain track:

This vicious land where death is wild.

 

A hurricane hurled through the hills,

Drove rain as sharp as Cuillin peaks.

The track became a test of will,

As far from hope and help could be.

 

This singularity that’s life:

Absurd and free, I left the path.

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