After a row

A lapwing somersaults spring flips over winter and back. After a fast walk up long hills, my limbs the engine of  thought, where burn bubbles into beck and clough to gill, beneath a sandstone cliff  balanced on a bed of shale and held from hurtling by Scots pine that brush a scrubby sky with cloud snow scutters, I found a place to sit by snapping watta smacking rocks and wondered — how would it be for you? And so, alone, un-alone even, in my anger, bring you here.