The purple blooms across the moor,
Outside my little cottage door.
The wind sweeps through the rugged brush,
And breaks the early morning hush.
A tough and hardy, stubborn weed,
That fills an ancient, quiet need.
To cover up the barren stone,
And claim this wild land as its own.
Oliver is a poet of the highlands, writing extensively about local folklore, myth, and the absolute magic of the Scottish landscape. His verses are misty, atmospheric, and deeply rooted in the historical battles and romances...
The dark water is deep and cold,With monster legends, brave and old.The castle ruins guard the shore,Where ancient...
My grandmother’s hands are stories, creased like pages worn by years, holding prayers beside the window, hiding every...
The castle walls are hidden deep,Where all the ancient legends sleep.The green vines wrap the towers tight,Against the...
Olusegun Ajayi
I love the sweet rhymes and rhythm of this poem and how nature doesn’t not only nourishes but consumes. That’s beautifully haunting.