The Cuillins rigid stand, black gabbro mass,
Set down in days of tumult, angry strife,
When water, fire and air did boldly clash,
To leave in petrefaction, jagged knife.
In Coire a Bhasteirs shaded rock fort,
Whereon the Tooth's inane and knowing smile,
Glowers on timid men who come to sport,
To tread contempt, the virgin rocks defile.
Sgurr nan Gillean's prehistoric back,
A monster crouched in everlasting wait,
The pinnacles bear no smooth well-trodden track,
Here must man tread with care, lest meet his fate.
From Bidean's lofty head on kindly day,
A panorama stretches out of sight.
Coruisk's blue sheltered waters stoically play,
Beneath the red and black of soaring height.
The angled slabs of towering Sron na Ciche,
Pitch after pitch of sound inviting rock,
Where ant-like figures toil on looming cliff,
The gauntlet thrown, in earnest battle locked.
Protruding from this blank infinite wall,
The Cioch's gravity-defying pose,
Mocks wanly those who saw the apple fall,
With shadow cast, this great Cyrano nose.
Rough Cuillins who could say with beauty blessed,
Or speak fair words of cruel impending line,
When gainst a bulging slab, with body pressed,
Who then with gentle tongue your looks define?
Yet from Scavaig when warm Atlantic breeze,
Sweeps puffs of white above your stalwart crests,
And lulls the mind to calm contented ease;
Then in your bosom sublime beauty nests.
Photo and Poem submitted
by Bob Crawford