The Isle of Arran

If I had tramped these hills,
These high hills of Arran,
These glens carved by ice-giants-
My whole life-long,
Through shades of purple and green,
Deep yellow seasons of gorse

If these had marked my footfall
Through scree, burn and tarn
Every boulder familiar
Each graggy skyline a friend

Then, old and worn
I too would gladly lay me down
Beneath an anonymous cairn of rocks
For all weathers