Haya

Those highland whistles, lets you know, what her people would chisel, the corridor sourball blue, their wiles will show, her dancing smile in tune, garroted by your ready steps, she hurts you with her no, still looking above the crest, a knife wound to the sea, a young woman free to bestow, love to lowland harmony, the engine screaming, you realise by winter furlough, she’s not done dealing, for the lands of the thistle, she’ll only warm her toes, stifle yawns around a chasm, dream of places to go.