Montrose

Montrose

Upon the silver bend of Tay,
where gulls in soft applause still sway,
the town of Montrose awakes each dawn,
its cobbled streets a quiet yawn.

Old stone walls, with ivy dressed,
guard memories the sea has blessed—
fishermen’s boots, the salty spray,
and children's laughter, bright and gay.

The lighthouse stands, a steadfast guide,
its beam a lantern on the tide,
while fragrant blooms of heather grow,
on cliffs where winds and thoughts all flow.

In evening’s hush, the harbor sighs,
reflecting pink‑tinged, weary skies,
and every wave that kisses sand
whispers a song of Scottish land.

So here, where past and present meet,
Montrose holds steady, calm, and sweet—
a jewel set upon the coast,
where heart and horizon softly boast.