It's gusting now, the trees still bear a heavy load of wet foliage and the leaves are like books raining from the sky, the air is wet and stony; and TS Eliot delivers me to Scotland with just a few words;
"Rannoch, near Glencoe"
by T S Eliot
Here the crow starves, here the patient stag
Breeds for the rifle. Between the soft moor
and the soft sky, scarcely room
To leap or to soar. Substance crumbles, in the thin air
Moon cold or moon hot. The road winds in
Listlessness of ancient war,
Languor of broken steel,
Clamour of confused wrong, apt
In silence. Memory is strong
Beyond the bone. Pride snapped,
Shadow of pride is long, in the long pass
No concurrence of bone.
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