By the ferryman’s house at Ardpatrick
the rippled skin of water draws
cool winter yellow
from the reach of western sky.
Rough stones march
into the loch. Men hewed
and moved them, and women,
no doubt, comforted the men.
In the ferryman’s garden an empty swing
rocks as if stirred by more than the wind.
A lifeboat, upturned,
a trellis of rust,
reverts tenderly to the ground,
having saved lives
and sheltered wood for the fire.