By August, the hills have settled
into their deep greens and purples,
heather thickening across the slopes
like a slow‑gathering bruise.
The air holds a warm hush,
not heat exactly,
just a softness that makes you pause
on the path a little longer.

The mornings carry a cool warning,
a hint that the year is just about starting
to think about turning.
Light still stretches wide,
but it flickers at the edges now,
as if testing how long
it can keep pretending.
Even the lochs look different;
darker, steadier,
mirroring a sky that just won’t commit.

Evenings glow in that tired,
late‑summer way:
soft gold on the water,
a wash of colour over the ridges,
midges rising in their thousands
to remind you where you are.
And beneath it all,
a quiet truth settles in the land:
August is the held breath
before the first cold note,
the last long light
before the year begins its inexorable descent.