Your name in Gaelic tongue declares your place;
Invading English eyes but read the dream:
Ben Hope, the guardian of this endless space,
Where ceaseless airs and light will northly stream.
Your long leitir ascends the southern slope,
Obliging a forgotten world around -
But summit proud, abrupt and full of hope
Looks out beyond provincial Britain's grounds.
At nine in ninety-five I drew your air,
Your full-of-promise grasses in the breeze -
The view, and time stretched long without a care
Before rejection, grieving or disease.
But still you stand, unflinching in the wind
All turned away from Britons left behind.
