Lewis Dawning
The wind is moaning,
mist forlorn and low.
The hills are softly sketched
in shades of monochrome.
The village blinks awake
from Sabbath slumber.
A bleating lamb is huddled
at the field's edge, uncomprehending,
it wonders at its birthright.
No silver light is falling from the sky
to ease this cloak of grey,
and yet, on such a bleak, dreich
Hebridean dawn,
A sound to cheer,
delight, surprise,
Just as the rain is falling, falling,
I hear a cuckoo - calling, calling.
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