GLEN COE

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  • Nature

    GLEN COE


    GLEN COE

    Softly heaving hills,
    Purpled with rampant Heather,
    Tumble gently down
    Into deep hidden valleys
    Bottomed out by spongy bogs
    Where a white-washed, thatch-roofed
    Cottage stands in isolation.

    Mystery floats through the depths
    Which are shrouded with gray mist
    Lying atop the lonesome cottage,
    Drifting between the peaks, and
    Settling onto the beds of
    Coffee-black peat bogs.

    Sheep dot the hills and valley,
    seemingly untended and independent.
    A wraith-like ghost of white-gray smoke
    Rises from a weathered stone chimney.

    Who lives here in this faerie land?
    What manner of person dwells day and night
    In this country of ancient Celts and dragons?
    There are no bag-pipes playing
    "Scotland the Brave" for camera-wielding tourists.
    No yellow and red banner with the Lion Rampant
    Hangs on the red front door.
    No corner shack sells fish-n-chips and
    Fried Haggis logs in grease-spotted paper.

    But "Scotland the Brave" it is.
    Bonny wee Scotland stands here.
    And ancient bag-pipes can be heard
    When the Highland winds blow just right.

    © Copyright 2008 Mona Lisa

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    frog commented on GLEN COE

    08-24-2009

    I love the imagery in this poem. It also has such a nice flow to it.

    Faiga commented on GLEN COE

    06-22-2009

    iI work on a street named Glen Coe. It gives it a whole new outlook ; )

    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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