Torridon

by Robin Wilson

the wilderness says something
and you are busy listening -
the pitch is sharp with birdcalls
the tone is a monster growl

underfoot the flint slides
until you must move or fall –
so you strive above it all

there should be communion
with moor and lichen rock
but nothing feels like pleasure -
you are an off-day witness
not the imagined conqueror

is this the best view?
is this the best glen?
where’s the GPS?
where’s the outcrop
no one has stood upon?

suddenly light flares out
behind the boulder storm -
this could transcend
all previous distractions

you take a photograph
to define an epiphany
to prove your measurement
of memory and wonder

then press to send
but there is no signal
no signal for how you feel