Arrochar Alps

I have been known to birth a mountain whole,

a range of them in my belly,

I popped them out one by one.

The blood-cut son born black,

I could not believe the wholeness of him,

the crushed diamond of his face.

And then the other,

who flew from me, a shooting star;

a twin mirror girl, whose orchid face

opened and opened and opened.

There were more of them,

one born of water, one of fire,

one for every element.

But now my mountain days are done.

The red night clouds, the afterbirth,

the snail shell whorls of them.

The unborns we named:

Ben Vorlich, and Beinn Bhuidhe.