Tyre scars and track marks
Carve the frozen mire
Along the border ridge.
Still hours left to run.
Over granite slabs,
With steel tips tapping.
A comforting irritation
That drowns the ovine snigger
And caprine chatter
Bubbling through the heather
Across the border
A telephone rings,
An alarm clock calls,
And the weatherman rumbles
A low pressure warning,
Swept away with a headshake
That lifts the veil,
A static rustle forming
A dark thing
Beneath a chorus laughter
High and bright
Later, by the gate, a lantern
Makes a lighthouse pass.
And a mumbled greeting
Breaks the silence
For a moment's peace, until
Sweet airs rise again
Windblown
Saying nothing
Saying nothing at all