I hear your waulkin-songs
in the clear morning.
I hear your boards groan
under your dancing feet.
I hear from the loch shore
your piper's breathtaking arpeggios;
but I see
only
your last low housings,
open to the skies,
strung like a plundered necklace
round your country's coast.
Poor stones,
warmed now only
by this harsh purple quilt
and anthemed
by the keen wind's plain-song.
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©Renate Mitchell.
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