Mist and Fire I walk where the wind remembers, where the heather hums beneath my feet, and the mist curls like a secret around the bones of ancient hills. No map can hold this path it’s drawn in breath, in memory, in the quiet joy of dew gathered on violet wraths of moor. The journey is not forward, but inward through dreams I once buried beneath the frost of doubt, through laughter that echoes like fiddle strings in morning light. I find myself not in cities, but in the hush between raindrops, in the fire that flickers beneath the peat of my soul. The pipes rise bold and aching, carving melodies into sky. My voice follows, raw and rising, like a storm that’s learned to sing. I am not lost. I am becoming. Every step through fog and fern is a hymn to the girl I was, and the woman I now claim. Let the rhythm quicken. Let the dudy cry. Let the moor dance beneath me as I burn brighter than the dawn. This is my song written in mist, sung in fire, carried by wind and never forgotten.
