A monolithic giant of a massif, Creag Mhor glowered in the evening light, a night calling ritual she’d practiced for millions of years.
Shot with quartz traces that traversed her wrinkled face, she showed the words, the spells, to all who cared to gaze through to the magic. Still, not one watcher could read her thoughts written so clearly above the greening sward.
A secret story of her birth, wasp lines caught in a memorial clamour, conducting the flight of storm clouds and tide swells. A seethe and surge of rock that spews boulders on the shore below.