The Stag of the Glen

He stands like a lord where the highlands unfold,
A crown of tines ‘gainst the morning mist,
The hush of the glen holds him proud and still.
His breath meets the dawn with a shimmer of gold,
A beast made of legend the hills can’t resist—
The pulse of the wild, untamed and chill.

His stride cuts the bracken, bold and alone,
Through whispering pines and the hush of the moor,
Where shadows retreat from his thunderous tread.
A sentinel bound to the land he owns,
In silence more fearsome than lion’s roar,
With a gaze that can raise the living or dead.

In rutting season, the mountains ring
With echoes of battle and bellowed might,
As challengers falter on heather-strewn ground.
He locks his foes in a deadly swing,
A blur of antlers, a flash of fight—
Then silence again, the victor crowned.

But gentler, too, when the winds grow kind,
He watches the herd with a guardian’s grace,
While calves find shelter near stones and fern.
The spirit of Caledon, deep enshrined,
In every contour of that noble face,
In eyes where ancient fires burn.

O king of the wild, long may you reign
On ridges wind-scoured and skies gone grey,
Where the loch meets the low-hanging skies.
In storm or snow, in sun or rain,
Still shall you haunt each Highland day,
A dream with antlers, vast and wise.