A warm wind buffets the cheek.
Peewits beat, aimlessly bleat,
and curlews shout against puffs of white cloud.
Competing skylarks, pipits in sixes and sevens,
and oh! the moss underfoot is so green.
Black-faced ewes and lambs
look over their shoulders and stare.
Red grouse yell, ‘go back, go back . . .’
So long it has been since
these fallen stones stood in a ring.
Here, a shooter’s empty half-bottle
of Prince Charlie’s whisky;
I slip it beneath a fallen megalith – it can stay there
until the next ice age.