Walking The Hill of Doon

Reading the morning sky –

A whisper of pearl-grey sunlight

Slips through light-drizzle.

Heavy clouds sleep in the hollow.

Easy, slow rain settles in.

Cold quietly seeps into us.

Rain runs off your nose,

Drips from the tip un-felt,

Until flowing,

It’s cupped and caught

In the bowl of your hanky.

‘Hats are for jellyfish,’ you say.

Thumbing-clean your foggy glasses,

We walk the barely rising track.

Wet to the skin,

Feet more like sodden bricks –

‘Pioneering on,’ you say,

Through the soak and slog.

Walking, talking sod to sky.

Skirting the bog towards the ridge.

Straining bodies tilt forward,

We lean hard into the slope,

Pull back the rising ground  –

Boots press soft muck-sponge grass.

Lulled by the sniggering stream,

We linger in our thoughts.

Flecks of laughter spring between us

And float away across the hills.

Light slips through in columns,

Raising the day to watch us walk on.

‘Do you hear the seagulls laughing John?’