Linksy

Those highland wastes, lets you know, what her people call grace, the heather's sourball blue, late summer's smiles on show, all dancing hills in tune, garroted by her steady taste, she kids me with her jokes, but never acts in haste, a knife stirs in the stew, young women free to bestow, favours of a lowland harmony, the car engine scrapes, you pass by August silos , she doesn't plan escapes, from these lands of good news, she’ll only warm her toes, stifle yawns at early noon, talks of places to go.