If I could believe my ears I'd
hear the clamour of battle
in the hammering stones

in the water's veins
which are clear of blood;
or the keening pines

in the arms of the wind, like
mothers wrapping their sons
in rough purple shawls;

or I'd hear the drums and pipes
in the crags where the clan trees
rise like steps, or years, or generations.

If I could believe my ears
I would keep the old sayings close,
a carpet of blaeberry, cowberry, moss

on the steep slopes
springing under my feet,
the slow, wet sobs of the bog

on the cross-leaved heath,
the purple moor grass
loomed by the breeze.

If I could believe my ears
the old stone songs
of the moine schist rocks are singing

me on, the high folk songs in the glen,
a silver stone in the brown river
calling the tune, where I turn

to the ancient stare
of a shy red deer.
The past believes it is still here.

• This poem was specially commissioned by BBC Poetry Proms, which are broadcast on Radio 3 during the interval of every Wednesday's Prom.