There is a spring on top of the hill that we oft times try to climb
and it runs by into a burn that slips by slowly as we sit beside
it, running into the sea’s ebbs and flows and waxing and waning tides
around us those of us still waiting for Gaia

It is to the moon that we must fly so to muse upon Her beauty
and only then to see afar Scotland’s sad and sorry
fate there is perfection somewhere in our turmoil a-rage with
blood in soil and tears in lochs for want of Gaia prayers