THE STONE SINGS SOFT.
The stone sings soft on Craiglee Peak
as grey gulls cry out at dawn;
the breeze at Craggy rock is meek;
his spirit flies free this morn.
Teardrops fall to Loch Doon below,
as snowflakes melt in the Sun;
in valley streams, memories flow,
and his race has now been run.
No more to tend his flock of sheep;
the wind now whistles his hound;
Craiglee holds his spirit to keep;
for his peace has now been found.
© Harry Harper
This dear old shepherd had often said that he could
hear the stone sing when the wind was favourable.
Beautiful Harry! Some lovely lines here but the one which touches the heart: “the wind now whistles his hound”-love this!
Thank you, Sue.
His passing was some time back, but never to be forgotten. Your comment is appreciated.