The sky’s like a pewter
of curiously dulled blue,
and “My heart’s in the highlands . . .,”
feels the day beginning again.

And whatever, whatever, says it
again, and stays here, stays
here with its old hands,
holds on with its stiff, old fingers,

can come too, like they say,
can come with me into this patient weather,
and won’t be left alone, no, never alone ever
again,
in whatever time’s left for us here.