On the Scottish Highlands
lies the Old Man of Storr,
Tall, rugged pillars of rock standing mightily
Above the luscious green grass.
In summer, the grey stormy clouds, release the anger
It has been keeping in for so long, lashing with lightning.
But still the Old Man of Storr argues, never cowering in fear.
It is autumn and the grass is basted with gradients of orange.
But unlike any other autumn,
There are hardly any trees.
Winter has come to visit just like any year.
It lays a blanket of snow just above the columns of rocks,
Just before the grass is brushed with snow.
It is early evening and the sky is stoked with colours,
The snow begins to melt
A year is finally complete.
