Ospreys

You'll be wondering why you bothered: beating
up from Senegal, just to hit a teuchit storm -
late March blizzards and raw winds - before the tilt

across the A9, to arrive, mere
hours apart, at the self-same riverside

Scots pine, and possess again the sticks and fishbones
of last year's nest: still here, pretty much
like the rest of us - gale-battered, winter-worn,
                half toppled away . . .

So redd up your cradle, on the tree-top,
claim your teind from the shining
estates of the firth, or the trout-stocked loch.
What do you care? Either way,
there'll be a few glad whispers round the town today:
that's them, baith o' them, they're in.