I wrote this in praise of Dorcha, at Loch Archaig, in the second week of brooding her three eggs with Louis.
DORCHA
Leaden nimbus-floccus scud and tumble o’er the bald hills.
Ill-mannered blusters of breezes ruffle her unkemp nape.
Still and still she stays: stoical patience untried by such insolence.
Nor is she shackled to Man’s incomprehensible tolling of time:
Minutes, and hours, and days of it pass her unheeded, untallied:
Whilst we, in helpless awe, watch, and watch, and wait…