One thing I need to understand is why the Highlands are so spooky.
Maybe because everything there happens in the space of a few breaths –
- every word you say has been said before, is being said, will be said –
because the hills are haunted and the woods are alive.
Because of the sense of being
watched. History
does not just have its eyes on you; you are running through its fingers
like meltwater, and every song in your heart is sung through the pines.
Every ghost has room to breathe; every ghost has lungs and they fill with
the wind off the peaks and the tinny rattle of swords died down to almost
nothing. Stop
driving when the road signs are in an unpronounceable tongue
when you can feel the mountains’ gaze on the back of your neck.
Coorie down where the MacDonalds fell I
dare you.
Daisy Harris
Daisy Harris Poetry 