The hills of Torridon rise up and are
no more or less than that.
They are sandstone, gneiss and quartzite,
not sleeping giants or rock eruptions
until we name them so.

Yet the morning light falls on them
like a salmon in the water
having caught the scent of spring,
that old dream of being a better soul
if only in some other place.

And while pathways hold meaning,
each trackless journey
traces out a new conception,
each onward step a fresh assertion
of nothing set in stone.

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