Snow whipped down the Tarmachan Ridge, and gathered in hoof prints in a field by the Lochay.
That’s where we met.
You, hunkered in a grey fur coat
Bedraggled and stiff
Gathering the cold
Like a sobering drunk at a bus stop Knowing the last bus has gone,
And me, cowering from the wind,
Dressed for Siberia,
With hot-breath-blow-back flowing Like the Dochart beneath my mask.
I might have passed you by
Had it not been for the sun’s flame
Painted on the dead bracken
Catching my eye.
But I stopped, and a moment passed, You fluffed your feather boa, And I straightened my mask.