In another culture, a place like this
With its commanding views
And its sufficient otherness
From the city down below,
Might be a site of pilgrimage,
A holy place, just far enough away
To be worth travelling to,
And quiet enough to permit
The occasional miracle; not here—
The deities worshipped on these hills
Are bogies, birdies, eagles,
And the greatest of them all, the hole-in-one,
Cause of generous libation
In the temples of tweed and spiked shoes
In which these pilgrims gather.
On Buckstone Snab a laid-out map
Will show you where others are,
The points by which we fix
Our position in this world.
Their names are lovely, might be sung:
Knock Wood, East Lomond, and Cat Law,
Other hills that are small and distant.
Whatever hill you’re on, this says,
There will be another—a metaphor for life,
Perhaps, to keep us in our place,
Which now, at this moment,
Is on Buckstone Snab, with a wind
From the south west, with scurrying clouds.