Siege at Threave
Hold onto your weans,
Scottish Heritage have hoisted the red flag,
winds are cutting down the Dee
and the island is adrift,
rudderless in the merse.
Flagpoles bow, hellesponts blaze
in wild winter sun. We tie the kids
behind the caponier
but we have taken casualties:
the boatman has been wounded
by a piece of boiled ham,
and an old man is lost dooking for his flask.
No time to grieve: black clouds
are massing in the valley
and we squat behind sodden stone
for the worst to come.