The Cuillin

If I stood, now
Looking outward
From Sgurr nan Gillean,
Upon the high ridges
Of the Cuillin; that light
Whetted by memory;
A sharpened knife
To cut the clearing skies.

Would I, then, still see
You, brightened
In all your youthful beauty,
Composing distances
And calling, upon me,
Gathering clouds:
The stormfront
Of what was still to come.