‘The Faerie Mountain’ by Elizabeth Henry

Near rugged shores and inky lochs, Schiehallion prevails.
As stronghold of the faeries, she’s the guardian of their tales.
And at her foot there is a strath with water through its heart—
An awe-inspiring stimulus for literature and art.

A shroud of grey rests moodily atop her peak of white,
Till stubborn shafts of Highland sun cast rays of welcome light.
Whilst heather clumps in purple waves mid grouse and stags and hares,
An eagle soars above her crown, the carrier of prayers.

Along her burn that gently flows are hammocks, humps and stones—
Decrepit eerie vestiges of ruined Pictish homes.
And to her south there is a glen, deserted, long and low—
A verdant valley, lush and dense, where ferns and flowers grow.

In ancient times, her tranquil glades played host to kings and queens
Who sheltered there from English troops and prayed they’d not be seen.
In later years, a scientist came, enraptured by her form,
And now she’s known as Maiden’s Pap or sometimes Constant Storm.

‘Twas in a distant decade that a lassie went astray—
A girl named Margaret Ritchie left her home and fled away.
The natives duly found her on a raw Schiehallion crest.
They say the faeries took her soul from deep within her breast.

But what of nymphs and pixies, after whom the mount is named?
They’re simply comely maidens who appear to laud Beltane.
They dance around the faerie well and drink and sing and cheer,
And in return they boast good health throughout the coming year.

Elizabeth Henry is a poet living in the United Kingdom.