With harsh wind whistling in our ears,
cheeks pinched red and numb with cold,
we soldier slowly through land untamed
– great pioneers in a strange new world.
Heavy boots crunching over brilliant white,
we crest the hill and our eyes alight –
between snowy slopes our palace awaits
like the finish line of a marathon race
Packs are piled high against rough, stone walls,
and firewood is fetched from trees the wind has felled.
Sodden socks hang from old fishing line,
as candles hiss and flare in the darkening dell.
An acoustic guitar sings a past lover’s name
while our shadows dance to the roaring flames.
The whisky cork pops, like a toy cap gun,
as our spirits soar and our bellies burn.
Sleeping sacks unfurl, like flags of proud nations,
laid upon benches as bedding fit for kings –
with rumbling snores and slumbering hearth
we pass the night and await what day may bring.
While outside these rough, stone walls,
under the stars that shine so bold
between snowy slopes, through land untamed,
our palace stands amongst nature unchained.
This mountain bothy – our mountain home.
Copyright © Christopher Nicol 2015
Christopher Nicol is a creative writing student from Ayrshire, Scotland