(St. Mary’s Loch from Megget Water Bridge, January.)

Lean evenly, white pool of light, before the spirit held intent, each power of sense impelled into one point of sight; no radiance on the glassy face or aught created eyes the vision holds, absorb, embrace; so all in silence lies.

The eyes behold a hundredfold a million ripples lap inaudibly upon a lap delicious curves enfold; around the water’s sinuous verges where the meek hills loll felicitously intermerges long lines’ rhythmic roll.

In a bright vault stand little clouds immobilized by frost, which yesterday were rolled and tossed and dragged in ragged shrouds. Hushed is the wild and rainy west before the tender north, to still the scene for one rough guest whom chance has driven forth;

round whom, attentive, motionless, each happily unseen in his impenetrable screen of leaves which once twigs dress; from odorous moor and windy height and opalescent haze like planets on a starry night all those spirits gaze.

John Gray.