For L.

The sheep are not stupid, not this time,
for as they huddle soundlessly
I can only rue their better sense.
For as they shelter beneath an oaken canopy
this blizzard gouges and cuts me,
a mist of bitter pine needles given flight.
The storm pays no respect to the landscape;
all is levelled and blanketed, while I plunge on.

I search for the footprints, the path to follow.
You walked the heather, barefoot and with grace,
not this frozen carpet which swallows all.
I search, overshadowed by the dusted mountains,
tramping this highland of my solitude, over the frozen burn,
a long string of glass with no force.
I shiver and have only my torch song to howl to the gale:
it may not listen, but it hears.

Once I could have retraced my steps,
opened the door to warmth and held you safe and small.
Now there is no open fire to return to, no hearth of comfort,
merely the hills.