norman maccaig

Looking Down on Glen Canisp

The summer air is thick, is wads
that muffle the hill burn’s voice
and stifle colours
to their cloudier selves – and
bright enough: the little loch
is the one clear pane
in a stained glass window.

The scent of thyme and bog myrtle
is so thick
one listens for it, as though it might be
a drowsy honey-hum
in the heavy air.

Even the ravens
have sunk into the sandstone cliffs
of Suilven, that are dazed blue
and fuzz into the air around them –

as my mind does, till I hear
a thin far clatter and
look down to where two stags
canter across the ford, splashing up before them
antlers of water.