Folklore

It was not witchcraft

or the demon loaded night

that kept the boy awake,

in a good way.

It was being afloat under

the thought and sight of

diamond studded hills 

alive with deeper meaning

than the town around him.

It was not falling forever

into the neglected well

rank with unfathomable depth,

but a fountainhead

sprung from the gold plated fields.

It was not night, but delight,

beyond the sad streets,

the stone alone, him and

the pillar that had remained forever

sentinel on the blazing moor.

It was his deft, solitary breath

in the upland saddle between

two guarding peaks, mist ridden,

lost in a cradle of moss,

with the glimmered land looking

after the not lost, solitary boy

even as the distant clachan lights

dwindled long past midnight.

It was the shadow of delight

that found you,

cast not by by light,

but by blood and knowing

far beneath the thin 

unreal streets you walked upon.

It was not alone the long ago,

the lamented, ignorant times

ploughed by superstition,

but forever now,

the iron pulse shared

to declare

belonging

forever.