Mist on the Munros

Stone walls hold the night in silence,
a bothy crouched in the storm.
Boots lie broken, damp with peat,
hands still burned from cold and worn.

The Munros rose like darkened giants,
clouds tore hard across their spine.
Every step was bloody and breathing,
every ridge a fragile line.

Yet standing there, above the ruin,
the world was endless, fierce, and true—
and though the climb near broke me open,
it gave me back a wilder view.

Now by the fire, the wind still calling,
I know tomorrow I’ll go again.
For through the mountain’s grit and trial,
I find the part of me that stands.