Today we walked round Loch Trool. It was a beautiful autumn day – a real ‘good to be alive’ day. This is a favourite walk of ours, in all seasons and some time ago – not this autumn, it inspired a poem, one version of which was published in Dawntreader – a poetry magzine published by Indigo Dreams .
Our path cuts a rough scar
on the hillside above the loch.
Gnarled hands of roots, scapulae
of stone, trip the unwary.
Emerald mosses cover, transform
hard rocks into scatter cushions.
Across the loch, rock scabbed hills
rise, form a distant glowing palette.
Russets mix with greens and ochre.
Below us, a watercolour of trees
shivers in the autumn sun on this,
no peaceful scene in the past.
Walking along, we recall the time
when Bruce claimed his victory
of the few against the many, by
rolling boulders down steep slopes,
taking adversaries by surprise.
We look down, hear ghostly echoes
of men’s battle cries, of maimed horses,
see the graveyard loch of the defeated.