The thistles climb the thatch. Forever
this sharp scale in our poems
as also the waste music of the sea.
The stars shine over Sutherland
in a cold ceilidh of their own
as, in the morning, the silver cane
cropped among the corn. We will remember this.
Though hate is evil we cannot
but hope your courtier's heels in hell
are burning: that to hear
the thatch sizzling in tangled smoke
your hot ears slowly learn.