Was it the scene or the name he saw
where rain-clouds blow,
where moving shadows go, dark and low
beyond the hazy glow
of the gold-streaked bow?
Murmur it soft and low: Loch Awe.
Only the storm-birds know.
No-one else has seen it so –
in the wash of stillness, mist and silence,
with the castle marooned far below
on its dreaming archipelago.
JMW Turner, 'Rainbow over Loch Awe'
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