You know how it is.
You think the grass is greener there,
the slopes gentler, the streams clearer,
skies brighter blue, heather always
a carpet of plum purple and hills
majestic, bold, not barren or bare
Our childhood appears
in technicolour perfection
which is of course exaggerated
over the stretching years
And yet, as we drove north again
over the undefended border,
approaching through widening
horizons, azure skies, towards
rugged order, hidden fierceness –
Tullibody, the Delph, the Ochil Hills –
I realised I had understated,
undervalued this highland magic:
my personal Brigadoon.