Fiddlestick's End

We drift from sandstone houses
On a raised beach above the firth,
Crunch in warm boots through a picturesque blizzard

Swirling under street lights
To eventually descend on Alasdair's house
At the foot of Castle Brae,
Glenmorangie in every pocket.

Fire in the big room, unstoppable musicians.
In the kitchen - close the door -
The talkers, and the New Year phone calls
From exiles in England.

Out on the hills to see the dawn,
Cloud-hidden, ice on the roads.
Driver and passengers, sun-dappled,
Snore in a ditch.