Fells of Molten Honey

Oh my Scottish heart!  

I have returned you to  

The Unicorn’s land,  

On the scalloped roads  

With places to wave, 

To sleep under a sky  

That rolls in weeping Atlantic 

Tears while it paints 

Masterpieces in Payne’s Grey. 

She chills to the bone and seems 

Barren to those who cannot see the 

Rolling fells made of molten honey, 

Finding sweetness is in rye;  

An elixir in lilting tongues. 

To survive here, 

you have to hear the song in Wind,  

Recite the incantations of Spring. 

To thrive here, you must learn to pause

And worship Sunlight every time 

She kisses Heather.