Manna

Footsore, like the Assyrians of old
as ravenous as wolves, we left the hill
bright-eyed, invigorated by the cold,
clean mountain air of which we’d drunk our fill
and slept on the train home from Ballater.
Twenty-eight miles we’d walked to Lochnagar
and back, following the burbling waters
of the Muick, the summit one grand hurrah.
That night we fell like two starving navvies
on bowls of Scotch broth, platefuls of roast beef,
and Yorkshire pud, spuds, sprouts, carrots, gravy,
rhubarb crumble — divine beyond belief.
After a day of holy, God-like things,
the benediction balm: feasting like kings.