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.