Swiftly changing moody skies, sulking now, and gray,
Rimmed about with verdant edges blazing away,
Clamoring vines, that bloom aloud in noisy crowds,
Crowning all of this are hills of black, piercing clouds,
A patchwork quilt against the backdrop of cold sky
Where field duck, geese and gull, propitiously, do fly.
Winding rivers that shine like a pasteboard display
Abundant with dwellings that seem modeled of clay,
Rigid stanchions of forest commanding the scene
Of woodlands in limbo, sound asleep and serene,
Her bonnie green cramming every top of each mount
With visions of heraldry the mind cannot count,
Fields polka-dotted with sheep and black angus steer,
And there, in the distance, some tall tower appears,
Like a lone sentinel in its halo of white,
To stand, guarding late exit of day into night.
Castles ringed with her magic and filled with her ghosts,
Past miles of rock-studded farms, west on to the coast,
From Dundee to Carstairs, and down to Scot’s Glen,
Making straight for the sea, by the way of Girvan,
A sight full of splendor and eternally green,
Like a shimmering torch, and a gem for her queen.