A blast off the Atlantic
snaps a flag in the Firth
of Clyde, while thirty leagues
away, the same synoptic wind
surges across this hillside
honeycombed with mineshafts,
sounding the unstopped slots
of a "G" harmonica left
to dry on the kitchen sill.
Snow charges a sky
in which the sun swims
and glimmers like a groat,
a turbulent space where owls
hunt by day but nothing
stands for long—bereft
of circumstance—beyond
the standing stones of
Long Meg and Her Daughters.

Through the night, like a stoker
on a fast express—the Hyperion
on its Edinburgh run—
you hoy buckets of coal
on the grate, only to see
its flames drawn up
the chimney, getting more
heat from hoying the fuel
than from its burning.
As a barnacle goose swims
against the dark, uttering
its terse honk, you pull
your favorite word, duvet,
close about your head.
Tomorrow, bailiffs may
take everything
not hammered down.