by MARIA BONAR
At dawn the stag appears on
the misty hill near Loch Leven
I watch silently from my
window until he bolts
I fancy I hear the prayers
of a captive queen
echoing down the years from
the ruined castle on the loch
Later, I wander through
the lavender fields
amethyst gems
sparking with raindrops
Their fragrance holds the
memory of summer days
bumblebees and soft-scented
sheets birling in the breeze