An Teallach, Winter by Ian McCabe Iced pinnacles glow red above Dark Toll an Lochain’s hearth, The embers of the setting sun Soon die to winter’s dark. On bellowing Corrag Bhuidhe Spindrift sears above the gorge: If crampons slip, then we are ash In the cold heart of the Forge.   Winner of the poetry section, 1997 MCofS Mountain Article Competition. competition details

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