I climb the buckled road:
always the smell of dampness
from the moss and in my clothes
the soaking rain.

Scotland’s lost.

The high hills shrug the clouds off
but the mists descend.

Along the road
the ancient deer graze slowly
where the raindrops shatter on bleached stones.

I turn the dead page of her letter
where the ink runs slowly under
water and begin that old procedure:

I will forward every sheet by hand
to hills where clouds burst:

those mysterious postmen
nullifying my deliveries.