Smailholm Dreams...

Rain mists soak the landscapes surrounding the tower house. I watch swallows dance through the fine droplets, searching nesting sites, chittering their hellos to me as I wait for the next visitor... I have walked, through the silent bovine faces, each day up the craigs; the faeryknowe sleeps beneath my gaze, beckoning the Rhymers' children to its shining lands beneath.  My realm is of stone and rock, sulphur-bright broom and snapping Saltire; alone for a time, until crunching pebbles announce interested minds seeking their own experience of this solid remnant of the Borders' pyking past...

Stark it stands, upright.

Scott's warden, atop its crag

Always watching...