In the same way she cries at the kitchen door
and I slip her and she runs into circular squalls of rain
and she cries at the kitchen door
with snailtracks of rain in her muscular fur
so I open up and she runs in singing
and she cries at the kitchen door
so I open up and she crouches
then sprints into the wind
and the wind cries at the kitchen door
so I open up and call and call
and she doesn’t run in but the wind does,
with rain, a squall of claws –
in the same dogged, idiotic way
I open up, send Goodnight across the brae,
and the wind canters in
and she with a wild carol
and all the night hail
melted gleaming in her furs