Monks In The Highland Mist

They are not seen.

They are not felt.

They wander inbetween.

Where they once had dwelt.

The monks in the highland mists.

Over heather and loch equally.

They move with ease.

Surrounding unknown tourists creepily.

Like an invisible disease.

The monks in the highland mists.

In the dead of night.

Their chants can be heard.

Nobody knows the prayers they recite.

As they do not say a recognised word.

The monks in the highland mists.

I told you that they are not seen.

I admit to you I lied.

For what you witnessed travelling over the moss so green.

Were the spirits of the holy men that died.

The monks are the highland mists.