Lochan na Choire Ghuirm

Searched for hours
Stumbling in light
Surrounded by old rock
Minus the fossils
(which has intrigued
for a while
and doubtless for ever)

Wild wind whistles
Dead mists above
antennaria dioica
And heather
Then coldly through
Lochan after lochan
Of every colour
In every fissure
Save the green one
Which is still
A mystery
And looked for

Not a ripple on the loch
Not a rise
Looking for the unfindable?
McCaig whispers, “Unwise …”

In darkness
Soft pillows
With weary heads
She’s Unfound
Not forgotten
In dreams
Her last laugh
“come back ye tumshie
it’s NC 26153 26850
not 26442 27473”
Next time you come
I’ll sing “hero”
That’s how all men
Come to find me