Fog, it’s the mountain’s breath.
We arrive at the first cairn,
looming out of nothing:
fog ‒ colour of limestone;
fog made into stone.
We breath it;
breath in their spirits;
mountain of fog;
we enter the cairn;
enter a womb.
Crouched inside;
in no place, no time;
stone, air, water speaking
the language we have forgotten;
we must be reborn to hear it.
