The Highlands - Poem by Terry Dawson
How sweet it is to take the path
That leads to Highland and to hearth
To leave behind the busy strife
Of the frenzied city life.
Where rolling hills in summer green
And timbered valleys in-between
Bring calm back to a fevered brain
And magic melts away the strain.
At evening hour the fire is lit,
In its warm glow the people sit
And in the coals the stew pans hot
Bubble beside the coffee pot.
Without the walls the cold winds stir
The leafy trees while insects whirr -
The nightjar calls shy and reserved;
The ladies tell that dinner is served.
The call of francolin marks the dawn
How fine the view when curtain's drawn.
Long bridal paths down which to stroll
And vastness to expand the soul.
And vistas to inspire awe
As waters in white ribbon pour
When Mtarazi's waterslunge
In long cascade in headlong plunge.
And some would scale Nyagani's heights
To marvel at the matchless sights
That thrill the heart and seize the eyes;
Great vistas beneath pellucid skies.
Now harken to the swish of line
As angler plies his craft to dine
And place his fly with skillful art
To tempt the trout to play it's part.
Now sinks the sun behind the hill
And arms goosebump at evening's chill
As folk retire to refuge warm;
Far thunder's call is coming storm...
From the high branch beside her nest
The lusty robbin bills her best
And still her happy singing fills
That garden nestled in the hills.
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