It’s nearly New Year and we’ve loaded the van
with clothes for cold weather, boots and thick socks,
Christmas leftovers, the cat in a box,
and turn to the west. The fields are frozen
but rivers still run to the steely Forth.
The castle at Stirling floats on the carse,
and Ben Ledi’s white head shoulders the blue
of a limitless sky. Ben Lomond borrows
light from the loch. At Rest and Be Thankful
the snow picks out the bones of the rock.
The mountains are darker, the sun at their back.
We’re over the watershed, down to Cairndow.
Loch Fyne is like glass, and shows us the hills,
the curve of the shore and the lines of black trees
feathered in white, clear and still,
and there on the edge of this world, ourselves.
The wheels revolve, we’ve chosen the road.
We have to believe that we know where it goes.