Remote lost are the lines of a deceased Poet still lies his anguish still lies his despair mottled indifference of time can still show it wasteland trees still seek mercy in it's lair past structures of life are still rooted there the Celts always said that the sea was blessed yet writhing waves consumed all of their words laying their secrets in perpetual rest no more the barefoot Drover with his herds beneath an undertow of restless birds where once was a wave of misty arching smoke and forgotten tongues that whispered through the heather no longer the sound of the Corncrake's croak beyond an earthen floor as shiny as leather when the peace of the night fell like a feather hear the lost joy of the Fiddlers reel as Islands glisten in their perfection tranquility of time is still the keel for piles of disintegrating rejection to add to the Highlands poignant collection. Whilst walking in the remote Applecross peninsular I came across the ruins of an...