Lost Crossing A’ Mhòine

Step, sink, step, sink.
Do not get lost in the bog.
Feel the wetness of your socks,
A touch of cold on your toes.
Do not stray now.

Step, sink, step, sink.
Lean into your soles sloughing off.
Lean into the bog,
Shark-eyed cattle eater,
Devouring mountains whole.
Sheep dragged down,
Sodden wool and all,
Never chewing, only inhaling.

Nothing but peat water to drink.
Every thirsty sip gives and takes,
Silt settling in the stomach.

Consume the bog.

Cold in your boots now,
Cold in your knees,
Cold in your skull.
Where were you headed?
Who doused the village light?
Was it in front or behind?

Think into the bog.

Step, sink, step, sink.

The path is not where it was.
Boulder islands and little liars.
Every hummock says this way.
Every puddle says lie down.

Trust in the bog.

The bog coughs up antlers,
Remembers carts and kings,
Keeps them all the same:
Skin, bone, and golden rings.

The bog remembers things.

No malice in the bog.
No hatred in the bog.
Only appetite as old as stone,
Only patience deep as rain.

Embrace the bog.

It need not chase.
It need not call.
You have always been trudging here.

Step, sink.
One foot given,
One foot borrowed.
Nothing yours beneath the moss.
Everything leased from the bog.

Lose a shoe, an offering.
Up to your leg in penance,
Up to your waist,
Up to your ribs,
Over your chest, blanketing.
Peat-black water at your chin.

The sky becoming difficult.

Sink in the bog.

Step, sink, step, sink, sink, sink.

Do not get lost in the bog.