Winding Walks

Another Scottish Husband poem… let me know what you think

Winding Walks

         Quietude in the ancient forest, maze of trails,
crowded by he-heather, juniper, cloudberry
         and scots pine, gnarled and surviving,

          trunks wide as centuries, waymarking
the interior where capercaillie fantail
          black sunrises. We walk shapeshifting

          in our inappropriate shoes, my Scottish
husband telling me stories of painted people,
          aboriginal to the wildness,

          stacking their stones, steles still standing.
I can smell the resin, feel design in the rich, herbaceous
         understorey, tattoos on his forearms

         mirror and comb, double-disc, spiraling pattern
to his thick neck, comprehending blue and barbarian.
Gaining perspective at a carved pavilion,

          crisscrossing wood, rolled log railing,
we can see across the dance, Strath Spey, village of 
          his origin, wide valley to mouth of an azure river.