The crunch of ice underfoot,
a short low growl, grumbling and slightly irritable in its tone.
Faintly smoked air, with second notes of dank, damp vegetation
tingling the nose and leaving a little layer of tangy beading on the top lip.
And always in the foreground, the glowering granite of the mountain,
like an angry ogre, disapproving and menacing,
its chiseled jaws deflecting the spattered drizzle
to land like frothy spittle on the frozen earth below.
In the distance, the dark lochan lies like some vast velvet sheet,
only the forlorn wail of green plovers caterwauling on its shore
breaking the eerie silence around that somber pool.
Rekindling my slumbering briar,
and absorbing the slightly acrid, though pleasant, aroma of Old Holborn,
I hail my faithful friend to heel and ruffle his damp head
as we head downward towards the bothy, with thoughts of warmth
and the promise of the golden nectar in my hip flask.
Dusk is drifting in.
