The Mill at Aberchalder

There is a sweet smell lingering in the air,
The laburnums sway, gently moved by
Unseen breaths of wind brushing through
Their fruits pendulous, dripping yellow flowers.

An oriental scent of spices and herbs permeates
The garden, makes it foreign, unfamiliar, the
Rushing of riverwater becomes magnified
In the dusk, mingling with bird chatter

Chirruping across the stillness
Between the alder trees.
The crunch of feet on gravel sounds loud
And I hear the dog bark deep and urgent,

His bellow echoes in the shallow curves of hills
Which surround and enclose this secluded space
And over the marsh, white lights ripple
On loch water.            

One star gleams through the cloudcover overhead,
Penetrates a bright beam through the thick grey covering
Of dusk, calm and warm
Swarming with tiny midges biting.

This Scottish place
Has the smell of land abroad: Italy, or France.
Seti wags his tail and leaps at me enquiringly
His black spots dissolve as darkness grows -

This is strange sight: a human standing in the driveway
Writing on a page now brightly struck with moonlight
Sliding quietly over the mountain's rim,
Gilding all the purple land with silver.
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