Lightly depressing
the pedal I sink
the Mither Tap
through the pine-line
on the near ridge
entering
the dip in the road:
not the usual turn,
but serviceable and
leaving us time and to spare
to throw up a volley
of gravel where
we park for a withershins
circling of the new loch
and its lone golden-
eye, his fellows passing
overhead like a host of
balloons he’s let go
and flying off over
our house: there
before us,
the changeable –
that scattered grit
a council lorry
flings in our faces
and the wiper as quickly
bats away.