The Highland Prince

He and the place,
so worn; so wild.
Eye lines and the deep crags,
wind strapped and rain.
Vision, painted hazel and the earthen touch.
Green and blue flashes;
immortal rolling turf, and white swept dome.
A tenor utter in the gale, and carried,
while hands touch, and furs caress.
Up here, highlands.
The sun’s meddle, groping milky throats,
and fingers, leather, and golden-tipped curls —
crafted in gasses; smoothed by loughs.
Brandy tongue tousle,
and ancient shadow stones.

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