Oil on canvas 1500 × 500mm

Poem by Rachael Middlebrook

Whispers of the Way

Beneath the sweep of moorland skies,
Where mountains loom and spirits rise,
I walked the trail where legends stray—
The rugged path, the Highland Way.

With boots worn soft by peat and rain,
And shoulders kissed by wind again,
Each mile a verse, each stone a name,
In Scotland’s wild, enduring frame.

Through Rannoch’s breadth, so vast, austere,
The silence sang in voices clear,
And deer stood still with ancient grace,
As if they too would bless this place.

Then came a glen both hushed and wide,
Where time and nature gently bide—
Tigh-na-sleubhaich, stone and sky,
A croft where dreams and echoes lie.

Its walls, though still, have tales to tell,
Of shepherd’s hearth and heathered smell,
Of snow-thick nights and lambing calls,
Of mist that weeps on mossy walls.

I paused to breathe its silence in,
To feel the pull beneath the skin—
A quiet place, both stern and kind,
That marks the soul and moves the mind.

No grand parade, no need for show,
Just lochs that gleam and midges slow,
And hills that hold a heart at bay,
Along the West Highland Way.

So let the cities keep their lights,
I’ll take the stars on moorland nights—
For peace was found, not far, but free,
By Tigh-na-sleubhaich, and in me