Personal Blogs

Steam from the mug meets morning mist,
as sunlight spills like melted gold
across the heathered hills and Loch,
where silence breaks in notes untold—

A curlew's cry, a distant bleat,
the lapping hush of silver tide,
wind whispering through pine and peat,
the rustle where the deer might hide.

The kettle sings, the eggs are done,
toast stacked beside the marmalade;
but more than this, it’s light and song
that nourish what the night unmade.

Each sip, each bite, a sacrament,
the sky a canvas still being born—
and I, beneath this vast event,
a witness to the grateful morn.

Here, time forgets its rush and race,
as sun climbs slow through saffron air—
and breakfast, on this porch in Skye,
becomes a quiet, whispered prayer.