I have a bit of storm outside my window;
it's weather, pure and simple: just release.
Are these the gales that split the skies of Scotland
that blast that took her children piece by piece?
My bit of storm, quite spent, is now reclining
upon the house, turned inward from the sea.
Our naked coast lies warm and under cover
of snow-drift sheets, a gift from Lockerbie.
From Galloway, cross Dumphries' frozen meadows,
through Strathclyde, teasing heathers down below,
just out of view, the Channel's wildly reeling
from blows of wind and punches packing snow.
You see, my bit of storm is simple comfort:
my children sleep beside me on the floor.
I'm not that mother rocking still at daybreak
with hopes on hinges, staring at the door.