Tungsten-warm, a lemon strip illuminating
the horizon, awaiting the patter
of morning rain on an old zinc roof. Later,
trying to fathom the depth of days, their drop –
stopping to gaze up at Beinn na Caillich,
a moment’s longing sharp on the tongue.
Sat on the bench with a dry book, I parse
her words precisely, sensing
their bitter afterbite, the pith and rind.