by Harry Nicholson

As I slept last night the Trossach wind backed round
And drove like ragged flocks of sodden sheep
The massed columnar walls of leaden cloud
And flung them all along the hills of Fife.
Now the Linn is shouting as if filled
with belling stags, gorged with life.
By degrees the drying foxgloves lift their heads
And urgent fledgeling robins with drowned moths are fed.
I’d resolved to keep you in my sight,
But distraction took me – a mound
Of moss that for a fairy king might
Be a throne. I drifted in a haze of light,
Back to the house, breakfast, and a message in my ear
That in the night you had moved your five shining tents elsewhere.