The Tyrone Guthrie Centre
 
Up on the second floor, in a manor house 
converted  to studio use, my four tall windows
converse with the sky.  In the middle distance,
the lake spreads her skirts; an etching of fir trees
stretches behind.  Right now, the wind whistles 
down corners; inside, it’s warm, safe from the rain.
Rain, that keeps sending out messages, rat a tat tat
as it knocks on the panes.  Soon, I’ll climb into bed 
and lie sheeted:  firm mattress, thick pillows, 
comforter stuffed with the feathers of geese.
Wild geese, whose wings will fly me 
over night’s endless river, 
back to my love across the far sea.