Like the pig’s back she is named for, she squats,

broods silent over ancient untamed land,

a looming presence, first and final sight

of every waking day through all her years.

 

We see her in every form and guise. An aristocrat,

cloud-shrouded shoulders wrapped in silvered shawl.

Obscured within the torrents of wild Atlantic storms

that flood her flanks to feed the waiting soil.

 

Then when summer shines beneath the clear blue skies,

when purple heather blazes in the sun, and slopes

of scree gleam bright enough to turn away the eyes,

aloof she lies, as like some model on a landscape catwalk.

 

We are beneath her notice; she simply preens serene

above us all, a dominance so effortlessly pure.

Yet we pay heed to her, for every day we need

to watch those fickle moods that guide our lives.