Highland Air

Far away from the fray,

my celtic harp gently lisping.

I hear the liquid dewdrop tones of the strings,

as my fingers lightly dance, hardly touching,

flying, floating, strumming.

My heart listens to the whirring cry from the wind—

a high-pitched plaintive whine.

Worrying, wondering, in a lovesick complaint,

where my love is awandering.