Wreathed in white
Looming starkly
from the east
the mountains stand
The wind blows
still from the east
blowing straight
through you
Snow has not
reached here
Neither have
the drifts
The folk and animals
of Ireland and Argyll
plunged into winter
upon the spring equinox
Buried in snow
the sheep expired
the March lamb succumbed
to the March lion
Spring it was to be
But winter came instead
Three months late
here to stay
The muirburn flares
at times out of control
flames fanned
by the relentless east wind
Under the peat
the flames yet smoulder
north and south
across these isles
An anomalous spring
The seasons upside down
The east wind
in the isles of the west
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