by Jane Coombs

Not easy on a windy day, clouds like cuttlefish swim

the blue - a sign of things to come.

Dust scrapes the valley dry, shelter belts net what

they can - a losing battle today.

Twisty willows shed useless loads, poplars lean, cedars

 tremble, car doors strain - but refuse to fold.

Funky cows curdle, lambs huddle low, plump

fields hunker - as greedy gusts grow.

An honor guard of schisty rock lines my exit route,

family never had - come to see me off.

Ahead the Alps puff, speak of missing home, a tether

tightens on the wheel - mare’s tails slow.

From the pass one sorrow, a vanishing goodbye, the soft

spine of the Hawkduns - holding up the sky.

Why has a land not my own taken such a hold? This

ravaged plain has mined a space - to sit inside my soul.

And what of leaving, if not a promise to return? We

make our pact, I drive on - the Ida she still blows.