Two lads dead in Coire an Lochain,
twenty minutes from the Sugar Bowl.
Day-Glo just other shades for the hawk.
Painted Man awaiting the boar,
short blade keen as St. Ninian.
Did Blue Mountain rise
from the colour of his tattoos?
Macaskill might weave an answer.
The Strathdearn Bard worked the rail,
the steam bellow a mellow yawn
to the ever-cantankerous Lairig Ghru.
But the peaks care not a jot,
not for funicular, those who simply must,
not for the lovers on warm hidden slopes.
Fiacaill creases a smile,
feels the walkers tramp her jagged brow.
‘My pinnacles like relics of who they once were.
Let them have their conceit.’
© Tom McCulloch