The mist has gone, the hills are back,
Once they were green, now they are black.
The dowdy heather, looks so forlorn,
The whitewashed farmhouse all alone.
The silhouette of gnarled old tree,
Stands alone for us to see.
The single track to mountain's top,
The block of trees the wind to stop.
The snow-white dots of hardy sheep,
The dry-stone walls downhill they creep.
The mist's now back, hills disappear,
But still I hold their image dear.
Once they were green, now they are black.
The dowdy heather, looks so forlorn,
The whitewashed farmhouse all alone.
The silhouette of gnarled old tree,
Stands alone for us to see.
The single track to mountain's top,
The block of trees the wind to stop.
The snow-white dots of hardy sheep,
The dry-stone walls downhill they creep.
The mist's now back, hills disappear,
But still I hold their image dear.
