Rising from lochs the mountains cradle cairns
on top, towers built by the rambling crowds
who add their pebbles from freshwater burns
and man-made paths. Haphazard clouds
hang like filthy rags at half-mast. Kings
have strayed up here and added stone to stone
as if by stretching heavenward, their bings
of earth and rock might seize another crown,
another life. I trust an empty bag of crisps
to the grace of thorns. I wedge chewed bubblegum
in a cairn’s crevices, used husks that grasp
at gaps and rifts, sticking out their time.
A stationary fly is frozen by
a boot’s shadow, which sprints across its sky.